


No Place Without You

by deedee_devil (mainegirlwrites)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Love Triangles, Sherlock in Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 70,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9880718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainegirlwrites/pseuds/deedee_devil
Summary: Sherlock takes on a case of a kidnapping and assault of an equestrian Olympic hopeful named Clarissa O'Donnell. Little did he know he would find love in the last place he expected! There's good Sherlockian emotional ignorance, some great cases along the way, good fun, and of course, the ever present and patient John Watson. Mystery, intrigue and love! There is still lots more chapters to come. Cuddle up and enjoy!Just some heads up: there is vague referencing of Clarissa's kidnapping and assault. However, this is a story about RECOVERY. There is no dwelling or details of the crime. Also, as you may imagine, there will be a little bit of sexy time, so PG-13 ratings apply.Finally...I have always been writing. Always. However for two years I had a ridiculous writing block, and this story came to mind. And it poured out of me. I really, really hope you enjoy, and please give a KUDOS or leave a comment to let me know you're there. Thank you!





	1. CHAPTER ONE

“Terribly nasty stuff,” Sherlock muttered, toeing the horse’s limp hoof. He and his dear friend and counterpart, John Watson, had been awakened early this morning to investigate a missing persons case in the outskirts of London. Now there were at the requested location, a beautiful estate, its elegance diminished by the brutal exhibition of a horse carcass. Sherlock and John stared down at the once majestic animal, cut to pieces, with their friend and colleague from Scotland Yard, Greg Lestrade.

_Butchered. As in, from a butcher._

“You have to understand, sir, this is just not any horse. A real champion,” the man behind them offered.

“Eh…,” Sherlock groped for a name.

“Henry,” John offered, not missing a beat.

“Harry -,”

“Henry, Sherlock.”

“Right, yes, Henry, you are the groom, correct?” Sherlock turned to face the man, a petite but wiry figure dressed in blue jeans and a flannel work shirt. Henry’s deeply tanned and wrinkled face was twisted in grief.

_Hard-worker. Loner. Right-handed. His father beat him with a leather belt._

“Yes, I saddled this ‘ere horse for Miss Cleery O’Donnell this morning. She’s a real champion too, headin’ for the Olympics. Out training she was this morning, putting poor Denobar through his paces, no doubt. The two of ‘em together, truly something to see.” Henry pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his face. “She was out just too long, so I followed the trail they usually take. It’s the cross-country course, with jumps and all. I was afraid something had happened. And I found this. Seeing what’s happened to this horse, I am afraid for Cleery. So much.”

“What do you think?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

“It’s not good. Brutal attack, obviously. On this horse and the girl.” Sherlock swept his eyes along the ground, walking over to an area off the trail and along the tree line. “Two men. No, three. The girl saw her horse being killed. See here, these long tracks in the dirt where she kicked at the men while they did it. She was sitting up and they made her watch. Then they held her down.” Sherlock pointed to a few strands of blonde hair that had intertwined with the branches of a small, low bush. He crouched down, his long fingers perched on his lips in the shape of a pyramid.

“You can stop there,” John said, his face pained. “Greg, where are her parents?”

“Trying to get a ‘old of her mum, her dad’s passed away. Mum is somewhere in Russia. Runs the ballet there,” he shook his head. “Victim was only 26 years old.”

“She’s still alive,” Sherlock interjected. “She struggled as they dragged her away. After they were done. They were here a while. Confident they would not get caught…they knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.”

John followed his friend’s gaze to a pair of riding boots and a white shirt, smeared with blood, in the underbrush. Sherlock held it up with a stick. “It’s not just her blood. She’s a fighter. Took a decent swipe at least one of them.”

Henry, behind them, gave a low moan. “Oh, what did they do to her? You got to understand, Cleery loved her horses. They were her life. She’s a bit sheltered, doesn’t go out much, have any boyfriends. Sweetest girl. Just wanted to ride horses,” he turned away, hiding his face in his rag.

Sherlock pointed to a cell phone on the forest floor, which Lestrade picked up with gloved hands. The screen was cracked but it was still open to her music folder, and Sherlock peered over Greg’s shoulder as the detective inspector scrolled through the music.

“Hmm, 1960’s American rock and roll. Interesting,” Sherlock said, but he was off as he spotted something else.

“John,” Sherlock barked, and he was off into the forest. “Blood trail.” The tall investigator carefully wound his way through the woods, following speckles of blood on a rocky outcrop, the leaf of a bush, his eyes darting for clues. Sherlock identified three separate pairs of men’s footprints, and the dragging marks of the victim’s bare feet. In a few minutes, they entered a clearing where tire tracks were clearly visible on the soft earth. Sherlock studied them a moment through his pocket magnifying glass, following them for a few meters before they disappeared onto the asphalt pavement.

“And the trail turns cold,” Lestrade muttered, coming up behind them.

“Six passenger van, older model, white. What’s this? Dried blood. Not fresh. Not from today…,” Sherlock rubbed some of the dark flakes between his fingers and smelled them, grimacing. “I’d like to go back to the house, see where the victim lives.”

“Sure,” Lestrade replied, nodding and jotting down notes. It was all he could do to keep up with the genius detective’s rapid train of thought. Greg had stopped asking questions about how Sherlock had come to each determination a long time ago. “Henry told me she’s got a room in the main house, but most of the time she sleeps in the apartment above the stable.”

“Isn’t that where the groom usually lives?” John inquired. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe she's not as innocent as he says,” Sherlock said. John shot him a warning glance, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Henry brought the three investigators to the barn, where halfway inside the building, there was a staircase that lead to the apartment upstairs. The upstairs room ran the entire length of the barn, quite large but modestly furnished. The first area was a small kitchenette with table and chairs, followed by a living area with two large couches. Behind those were two twin beds, side by side. The entire floor was open with no walls, except for the bathroom area beyond the beds and a few closets. There were several saddles and horse blankets perched on chairs in various states of repair.

“So, Ms. O’Donnell sleeps up here with you?” Greg asked Henry.

“Well, you see, most of the time her mum is gone. She don’t like sleepin’ in that big house all alone. So she just stays here. Closer to the horses, too, and that suits her,” Henry twisted his rag in his hands.

“What happens when someone needs to change clothes?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, well, we just turn our backs, is all,” Henry sputtered, a slow blush creeping up into his cheeks. “I’ve known Cleery since she was a little girl. It’s – it’s not like its anything I ain’t seen before.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a quick glance, the same thought exchanged between them. _Odd._

Sherlock wandered over to a desk in the living area.

_Set up for a lefty – and Henry was right-handed. Cleery’s desk._

He began opening drawers, noticing pens, paper clips, note pads all neatly ordered. In the bottom drawer, there was a laptop he pulled out and opened. It was not password protected.

“Eh, that’s ‘er private stuff, Mr. Holmes -,” Henry began.

“Sherlock is allowed to look at everything and anything,” Lestrade said as he opened one of the small closets. “Hey, take a look at this! Someone’s quite the fan!” The inside of the closet door was plastered with pictures of Sherlock. In the center was the picture of him with that hat.

“She followed your cases very closely, Mr. Holmes. Cleery’s a very keen girl, she is,” Henry said.

“Will that picture ever go away,” muttered Sherlock, tapping away at Cleery’s laptop. He slammed it shut a moment later, finding nothing that could benefit him. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up, gazing about the apartment. Gregg and John stood back, always secretly delighted in observing the master work his game.

“Could you excuse us, please, that will be all,” Sherlock gestured to Henry without turning around.

“Eh, well -,” Henry said.

“Yes, probably for the best. You know, official police business,” Greg guided Henry to the top of the stairs, urging him down with the reassurance that they would be down in a moment.

“So, little privacy here. No walls. Laptop with no password. Her world is an open book to Henry, so it seems. But I think a young lady would need to have something of hers that you could not see. Something that is just hers…” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in contemplation. His gaze fell upon a thin, white wooden chair that served as Cleery’s nightstand next to her bed. He removed a pair of glasses, several books (excellent taste in literature, Sherlock observed) and an alarm clock from the chair and moved it 2 feet to the left in the tracks of some very faint scratches in the wood floor. He stood on it and looked up, and then with a shout of triumph, produced a journal from behind one of the rafters. Sherlock leapt from the chair, long coat pluming behind him like a superhero’s cape.

Greg and John exchanged pleased looks. Sherlock was productive, of course, and enormously entertaining. It was times like these that John had to pull himself back into the somber realization that they were seeking the victim of a horrible crime. Sherlock began to flip through the pages of the journal. John and Greg moved to peer at it by his side. The journal was bursting with newspaper clippings regarding Sherlock and his various cases as well as printed portions of John’s blog. It was apparent that Cleery had been following each of their cases clearly, often writing notes next to the clippings with her own questions and theories.

“Sherlock, that fact was never released to the public,” said John, pointing at one of Cleery’s notes next to one of his blog entries.

“Clever girl, indeed,” murmured the tall detective. “But here, these articles here have nothing to do with any of our cases. Here’s an article about the increase in crime in Worthingston. Here, an article about two murders in Farnsley. Here, here, and here, all information regarding crimes in Edinbrook and Carlise.”

“Some kind of pattern? What do these towns have in common?” inquired John.

“They are all very small towns, that’s what,” Greg said. “Bedroom communities, small populations. Everyone knows everyone in those towns. Crimes in any of those towns is pretty rare.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the outside of the journal and snapped it shut, then returned it to its hiding place.

“What next?” Greg asked.

“John and I, we’ve got some towns to visit.”

“Let me guess. To Worthingston, Farnley, Edinbrook, and Carlise.”

“Ah, John, getting smarter every day, aren’t we?”


	2. CHAPTER TWO

“Do you think she’s still alive?” John asked Sherlock in the cab to Worthingston.

“Yes. She’s a plaything to them. These three men, they are just pawns, instructed precisely what to do. Their reward for doing everything correctly is Ms. O’Donnell.”

John shivered. “Instructed by whom?”

“I don’t know…yet. Stop here!”

The cab lurched to a halt and Sherlock was out of it before the wheels had stopped turning. As usual, John paid, then hurried after Sherlock. They were in ‘downtown’ Worthingston, which consisted of about a dozen markets lining each side of the street. John noted a bakery, fabric shop, cobbler, a couple of pubs, and then he turned to face the store they stood in front of now. A butcher shop. Closed, in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the week.

Sherlock halted a young woman walking by. “Excuse me, do you know when this store is going to be open?”

“I don’t know if it will,” she said, smacking her gum.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it opened a few months ago, which was so good, because before that we had to drive two towns over to get to a decent butcher shop. But it closed last week, no warning, and no idea of when it’s going to be open again. Was kinda scanky at the end, anyway. No one bought their meat there.”

“Local owns it?” asked John.

The young woman shook her head. “Someone no one knew. Some feller – don’t know his name – don’t even live in town.” Sherlock hrump’ed, dismissing her, and John thanked her.

“One always assumes its human blood at a crime scene, wouldn’t they?”

“How do you mean?” asked John.

“The dried blood where the van was parked, John. Obviously. A van carrying animal carcasses. A van not washed out, resulting in ‘skanky’ meat. Resulting in a closed butcher shop. Our getaway car was from here, or from a butcher shop in one of those other towns. Also, a butchered horse. John, call those other towns. Ask if there are butcher shops in each of them – and if they are open.”

After a few minutes’ work, John reported that much like Worthingston, Farnley had a recently closed butcher shop, Edinbrook did not have one, but Carlise had one still operating that had opened about a month ago, and open today.

“To Carlise?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and texted Lestrade that he could send in the police to the butcher shop in Carlise, indicating that they were to arrest all employees. He added:

_Oh, and do come and pick us up, there is not a cab to be seen in this forsaken town._

Sherlock’s fingers flew over the phone, bringing up a mapping program.

“We are going to Habbingsworth. All these other towns form a circle around Habbingsworth. We’re looking for her there, in the center of the drug ring. Literally.”

“Drug ring!”

“Yes, an increase in crime in small towns often indicates the new presence of drugs in a community. Someone was using the butcher shops as fronts – but it’s quite difficult to run an actual, functioning legitimate business, and one that must follow strict sanitary procedures - hello, here’s Lestrade.”

Sherlock detested repeating himself, so John filled him in.

“Yes, yes,” the genius detective growled impatiently. “An old warehouse. Find me one.”

###

“Here!” Sherlock shouted. “John, I need you!”

His flashlight had found the figure of a tall, blonde girl on a filthy mattress in the back of the warehouse. Her hands were tied behind her back and her ankles bound. Sherlock bent down in front of her, pushing her blonde hair out of her face. He recognized Cleery from her pictures. Her eyes were clenched shut, and a piece of duct tape was across her mouth. Sherlock noticed her chest was heaving with effort to breath. She was only clothed in her bra and panties. He grabbed the duct tape and with an unceremonious motion, tore it off her face. He immediately noticed her lips were blue.

“John!”

“I’m here!”

Sherlock stepped away as John quickly assessed the girl, gently taking her limp head in his hands and speaking to her quietly. Cleery did not respond.

“She’s having trouble breathing. Looks like she’s gotten beaten to an inch of her life,” John muttered. He noted her bloody nose, blackened eyes, and bruised arms. “We need to get her outside. Where I can see.” John pulled the ropes from her hands and feet as Sherlock shrugged off his coat and placed it over her, then awkwardly collected her in his arms. Lestrade called the police as they wound their way quickly out of the factory. Once outside, Sherlock lay the girl on the ground as John continued to monitor her vitals.

“Cleery, Cleery, listen to me. Slow your breathing. You can use your mouth to breath now, open your mouth and slow your breathing,” John urged, kneeling beside her.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“I believe she’s got a broken nose. It’s like trying to get air through a clogged straw. Cleery! Open your mouth!”

Sherlock pushed John out of the way and grabbed the girl’s face with both hands, prying open her clenched mouth with force. Cleery cried out, lashing out at Sherlock with her hands, her eyes now open and wide with fright.

“We are here to help!” Sherlock said. “Now stop hitting me and breath!”

The young girl’s hands dropped to the ground, and she inhaled a great gasp through her mouth, her eyes locked on Sherlock. Her breathing began to slow, and color came back into her lips and cheeks. He nodded and grinned, releasing his grip on her face. “There you go,” he said. “Good girl.”

"Sherlock Holmes?" she croaked.

"Of course.”

John pulled Sherlock’s coat back over her as the police and ambulance pulled into the yard. The EMT’s came over with the gurney, and Greg and John quickly filled them in on what had occurred. Sherlock began to stand and move out of the way, but something tugged at his sleeve. Sherlock looked down in surprise, and realized Cleery had a firm grip on it. Sherlock took her hand from his sleeve and took it in his own with a kind smile and a nod.

“You’re going to be alright now,” he whispered. She nodded and closed her eyes. As the EMT’s lifted her onto the gurney, she groaned and held tightly onto his hand. Sherlock looked at John, who raised his eyebrows.

“She won’t let go,” Sherlock pleaded.

“Well then, let her hold on,” John replied, a smile on his lips. “Remember, she’s a fan.” Sherlock replied with a roll of his eyes, and walked awkwardly alongside the gurney until they reached the ambulance. At this point he either had to enter the ambulance with her or pry her fingers from his hand. The EMT’s looked at him expectantly. Sherlock grasped her wrist with his other hand and pulled. Her grip was quite firm.

“I think you need to let go, now, okay,” he muttered through clenched teeth, ridding his hand of hers. The EMTs quickly shoved the gurney into the ambulance. John jumped in to assist and told Sherlock he would meet him back at Baker Street. As the vehicle rushed away, Greg handed Sherlock his coat.

“Got some blood and muck on it,” Greg said.

“That’s okay,” replied Sherlock. “I have plenty of coats.”


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a little flustered. Say it isn't so.

“Why am I here again?”

John sighed and told himself to be patient. As incredibly brilliant as his friend was, Sherlock was none the wiser in the ways of human nature.

"This girl – Cleery – she’s a fan, Sherlock. You saw her room. She knew it was you that rescued her. Her mother won’t be here for another day. Other than the groom, she’s got no one. I think a visit from her hero would certainly make her day.”

Sherlock tilted his head back and groaned. “John…,” he began.

“No, no, no. You are not getting out of this one. Just go in, say hello and hope you are going to feel better soon, and give her that Sherlock smile. No doubt she’ll be thrilled. No questions about the case, not yet. She is not ready for that. Especially after what they did to her.”

“What did they do to her?”

“It was very brutal, Sherlock. I don’t think you want to know. But it’s going to take a very, very long time for her to recover, physically of course, and especially emotionally.”

“Yes, they killed her pet horse right in front of her.”

“Sherlock, they raped her,” John drew his hands down his face in frustration. “And – and did things to her. Terrible things. So be a good hero, go say hello.”

"How about just an autographed photo? She could hang it up and take a look at it all day.”

Sherlock knew by the set of John’s jaw that there would be no getting out of this. Sherlock held up his hands in surrender and strode into the hospital room. Cleery was propped up in the bed, looking out the window. In the mid-day light, her long blonde hair shone as it draped over one shoulder. One arm was across her chest in a sling, and Sherlock could see bruises along her neck and arm. As he entered she turned towards him, and her eyes widened in surprise and she pulled the oxygen mask off her face.

“It was you!” She spoke in a soft but raspy voice through a slightly clenched jaw. Sherlock noticed the marks around her neck where she must have been choked. One side of her face was a rainbow of bruises, the skin stretched tight with swelling. Her blue eyes were sunk deep in her skull and rimmed with purple.

Her eyes, something in there so much more than…sad, thought Sherlock. As brilliant as he was, he struggled in being able to identify more than just the simplest emotions in others.

“Oh, yes, me in the flesh,” Sherlock nervously cleared his throat. Cleery grimaced as she struggled to sit up straighter in bed.

“No, please, I only wanted to come in and say hello. And that I hope you feel better soon,” Sherlock recited John’s words as best he could remember them.

“Won’t you please sit down? I would like to express my appreciation for my rescue,” she massaged her jaw as she spoke, wincing. Sherlock instantly noticed the clipped way that she spoke. Some sort of not-full-on British accent.

“Ah, well, I’m sure you need your rest. I don’t want to – ah – stay and keep you from that.”

“You saw my closet, didn’t you,” Cleery lay her head deep into her pillows and closed her eyes, a blush rising in her cheeks.

“Well, part of my investigation into your disappearance included a reconnaissance of your living quarters – so, yes, I saw your room.”

“And my journal, of course. That’s how you found me.”

There was a moment or two of awkward silence, until Sherlock finally offered, “Would you like an autographed photo?”

Cleery opened her eyes in surprise and a bubble of laughter rose from her chest, but she quickly gasped from pain, her face a myriad of pain and mirth.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, confused. “You could add it to your collection -,”

“A moment of levity and I can’t even laugh. It hurts too damn much. Everything hurts,” she shifted, a hand on the thick bandages that wrapped her fractured ribs. “No, thank you very much Mr. Holmes, but I would not care for an autographed photo. My attraction to you is entirely intellectual. I appreciate the way you think, that’s what I am a fan of. Of course, you are not bad on the eyes, but I follow you – and John – because if I wasn’t riding horses, I fancy myself to be solving crimes. I appreciate your rescue very much, but if you are here to collect the accolades from a swooning damsel in distress, you can sod off.”

Cleery turned away from Sherlock and place the oxygen mask back on her face, her face now a bright pink and breathe raspy. The detective, clearly dismissed, turned slowly and walked out of the room to John in the waiting area.

“Sherlock, what happened?” John sprung to his feet, quickly assessing the confused look on Sherlock’s face.

“I am not quite sure,” Sherlock admitted. “I think I just got told off pretty well by a very fierce young lady.”

“Fierce? According to the groom, she’s a delicate flower he can barely let out of his sight.”

“Yes, two very different pictures painted of the same person. But I don’t think she would mind a visit from you, John. She’s a – a – enthusiast of both of us.”

John’s height grew instantly by three inches. “Really? Do you think she might want to see me?”

Sherlock nodded, suddenly very interested in the picture that his colleague would paint of the girl. It turns out he would have to wait over an hour for John’s determination. His friend was in Cleery’s room for at least that long, and when Sherlock would curiously lay an ear against the hospital door, he could only hear an animated conversation inside. Sherlock paced outside, his long fingers resting in a pyramid against his mouth, his curiosity peaked. When John finally emerged, Sherlock pounced.

“She’s a clever girl,” John told him as he shrugged on his coat. “More than clever. Pretty damn smart. Engaging. So incredibly terribly that this all happened to her. Still, I don’t think I’ve had a conversation that interesting in a while.”

“Except with me, of course.”

John smiled. “No, Sherlock, most of the time you are talking at me. You could certainly take a few lessons from Ms. O’Donnell on the art of conversation. She follows all our cases very closely, had some remarkable questions on how they were solved.”

“How I solved them.”

John stopped in his tracks. “Seems like this girl has put a certain detective in his place. I don’t suppose that a very familiar or comfortable place to be, is it, Sherlock?”

###

 

That night, Sherlock tossed restlessly in his bed.

_Damn humans. Jumping from one emotion to the next. Always the unknown variable. His thoughts were dwelling on Cleery and that impressively short visit to her hospital room. Sherlock drew a timeline in his head. First, she was nervous and excited to meet him. Then appreciative. Then embarrassed about the closet and the journal. Then surprised? Delighted? Aghast? At the offer of a gift (said autographed photo). Then indignant._

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose in contemplation.

_I would like to express my appreciation for my rescue._

That’s what she said. None of the tears and overzealous cries of ‘thank you, my savior’ that he had heard a hundred times before.

_I would like to express my appreciation for my rescue._

_It sounds like…. something I would say_ , thought Sherlock.

Finally giving up on sleep in the early morning hours, he donned his silk dressing robe and at his desk, began searching up Clarissa (Cleery) Martha O’Donnell. At 26, she was one of Great Britain’s premiere equestrians, having won several world championships in the three-day event of dressage, cross country, and show jumping. She was the top hope for a gold medal in the next Olympics. In interviews, which she rarely gave, she was often quite modest, even curt, dismissing her success to her horses and her staff. She trained relentlessly, but Sherlock found her name on the roster of a local college as a part-time attendee, participating in advanced courses in literature.

Sherlock stared at an image of her taken at an equestrian event last year. In the photo, she had a small, lopsided smile and the camera had snapped just as she was gazing her blue eyes right into the lens. Her long golden hair was twisted into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder, and the sun had kissed the end of her ski-jump nose. Her riding helmet was tucked under her arm and she was wearing the traditional riding wear of a black jacket, high collared white blouse, tan jodhpurs, and high black leather boots.

She looked smashing.

Mrs. Hudson knocked quietly on the door and brought in a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” she said, placing the tray down and pulling back the curtains. “I heard you walking around up here and thought you could use some tea. Everything alright?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Yes. Everything is fine.” Sherlock accepted the offered cup and Mrs. Hudson glanced at the screen.

“That’s that girl you rescued, isn’t it? How is she getting on, much better?”

Sherlock snapped the laptop closed. “She seems to be doing quite well. She doesn’t care much for me, but John had a quite long – and pleasant – conversation with her at the hospital yesterday.”

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. “You’re not jealous, are you Sherlock? You know John only has eyes for you.”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Oh, all right, well you enjoy your tea. You just focus on getting the bad men that did those terrible things to her. I know you’ll find them.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock’s fingers twisted nervously around his tea cup. “Please, let me ask you something. When a young woman, such as – ah, Ms. O’Donnell, is – ah, hurt in that way -,”

“You want to know what it does to them.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes cast down into his cup.

“Well, I have to say I have been lucky enough to never have anything like that happen to me. Had a girlfriend, though, got mixed up with the wrong kind of boy, you know what I mean. She tried to break up with him, and she got beat up good. And, well, eh, other things, too. Like that young lady you are helping. Terrible business. It took a long time, but she came around. I should say though, there was a sadness behind her eyes for the rest of her life. She got married, and had two children, in fact she died last year of cancer. I would sometime see her in the market, and she would smile and look fine, but there was that sadness in her eyes. Haunted, like. It just never left. Does that answer your question?”

_Haunted._

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

###

When John came down later that morning, Sherlock pounced on him.

“You need to get back to the hospital. I need more details from Ms. O’Donnell regarding her captures. I don’t want this case to linger – I want to get it over with. Wrapped up. Solved.”

John sat in his chair and pulled out the morning paper. “I need to get back to the hospital? What big plans do you have today that you can’t pay Cleery a visit – ah – wait,” John allowed the corner of the newspaper to droop so Sherlock could see the delighted expression on his face. “That’s right, she doesn’t like you.”

“What do you mean she doesn’t like me? She doesn’t like me?”

“I thought you didn’t care what people thought about you.” John shook the paper so it was upright once again and hid his mischievous smile.

“Well, of course not. I mean, yes, I don’t care what people think. About me, or about anything.” Sherlock proceeded to pull his dressing gown about his lithe frame and fall into the couch, facing the wall.

“I can hear your pout from here,” John put down the paper and stood up. “I will be going to the hospital today to see Cleery. Not to interrogate her, but because I think she would enjoy the company. She doesn’t have many friends, bit of a loner. Yeah. And, she already sent me a detailed email about everything that she remembered. Cleery said it would be easier for her to type it out than to talk about it.”

“And where is said email?”

“Oh, in my email inbox, of course,” John smiled, and walked upstairs. Sherlock ground his teeth but stayed on the couch until John was out of sight, then pounced on John’s laptop. Which of course his friend knew he would do. There was no sense having any secrets from the best detective in the world. Sherlock printed the email and scanned it quickly.

_Dear John,_

_As stated, here is my email. As I remember more, I will add to it, but right now here are the details:_

_Man One:_  
_6’, brown eyes, beard, brown hair slicked back_  
_Jeans, heavy work boots, black sleeveless t-shirt_  
_Calluses on fingers of left hand_  
_Tattoo upper right arm, large Celtic cross_  
_He seemed to be the one in charge_

_Man Two:_  
_5’7”, blue eyes, blonde hair in ponytail_  
_Jeans, heavy work boots, black t-shirt_  
_Missing 3rd finger on left hand_

_Man Three:_  
_5’7-8”, brown eyes, dark hair, crew cut_  
_Jeans, heavy work boots, dark blue t-shirt_  
_Was called “Frank” by Man Two_

_Events: Man One jumped in the path right in front of us, grabbed my horse’s reins. Man Two jumped out of the woods and pulled me from the saddle. Man One and Three got the horse to the ground and slit its throat and proceeded to butcher it. Man Two pulled me back into the woods, gagged me and made me watch. Then Man One pulled off my boots and shirt but I was able to kick him in the nose. He assaulted me first, then Man Two, and then Man Three. I was then dragged through the woods to a white van where they tied my hands behind my back and my feet. There was nothing in the van, but the floor was very rusty and smelled awful. Man Three drove while Man One was on the phone and Man Two was in the back with me and assaulted me again. We were in the van for several hours, but I believe we did not go far as the van continually made right hand turns. We finally ended up at the factory where I lost track of time. I have been told I was there for two days, and it was there that I was found by you and Mr. Holmes._

_That is all I would like to report at this point. I will get back to you later with more details. If you have the time today, I would very much enjoy a visit from you again. Our conversation helped me to take my mind off things and you can have my hospital Jell-O again today, I’ll trade it for an autographed photo, LOL. My mother should be in today as well and I know she would enjoy meeting you as well._

_Regards to you and Mr. Holmes (who I am sure is reading this),_

_C.O._

 

It was obvious to Sherlock that John had built an immediate repoire with Cleery. Certainly, this was not foreign to him, as Sherlock knew the extent of his own interpersonal skills. That talent lay with John. However, for some reason, with this case, it bothered him. It bothered him. Could it be that for once, he was seeking the approval of a person, when always before, they were seeking his? Cleery had instantly assessed him, Sherlock realized, in the hospital room. She sensed his awkwardness, and when he had tried to cover it up with aggrandizing, she put him down. Way down. Just the way he would have done it to someone else.

“This is quite insightful,” Sherlock muttered.

“I told you it would be,” John said, returning downstairs and shrugging into his coat. “Clever girl. And, it means ‘laugh out loud’.”

“What?”

“L-O-L. It means ‘laugh out loud’. These young folks have their own language.”

“Are you going to the hospital?”

“Yes…after I decide which photo to autograph. What do you think, Sherlock, should it be one where I’m gazing intimately at the camera, or an action shot?”

Sherlock ignored him and re-read the email several times.

Clinical. Removed.

“John, when you do decide to go to the hospital, I would like you to pay considerable attention to Ms. O’Donnell’s state of mind. You’re telling me she went through something quite horrible, which she outlines, but in the same email she’s talking about your favorite gelatin flavor and lolling.”

“L-O-L’ing,” John corrected him. “And, that’s quite insightful of you, Sherlock. I have thought about that already. She’s obviously gone through a traumatic event and she’s not ready to deal with it yet. I think if I can be a friend for her, it will be very valuable for her recovery, and for the eventual capture of these…men.” John tossed down his paper in disgust. The police’s arrival at the butcher shop was too late, it had been left, open and unoccupied, as the men escaped.

“Agreed.” Sherlock said. For once, he felt a need to finish this case – not to have another feather in his cap, but to really get these men. For Cleery.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

John did have a nice visit with Cleery. Of course, very sad under the circumstances, as the now-yellowing bruises continually reminded him. He got to meet Cleery’s mother, Dorothy, who intermittently left the room during the visit, only to return with red-rimmed eyes and shaky breaths. John followed her into the hallway after another departure.

“Mrs. O’Donnell – Dorothy,” he corrected himself, as she had insisted earlier.

“John, it’s the hardest thing ever,” she said. “To see your child in this state – and she’s being so brave -,”

“Because she is brave. Very, very brave. And very, very strong. But don’t feel you have to be. If you want to sit in that room with her and cry, I think Cleery will understand. I think she could use a good cry, herself.” John grasped each of Dorothy’s hands in his. She was a lovely woman, but she seemed the type that would be overly frazzled by losing the can opener, never mind having her daughter involved in such a traumatic event. Dorothy smiled gratefully at John and nodded. She smoothed down her dark gray hair and pulled it back into the clasp at the back of her neck. She was an elegant woman, with the stance of a former ballerina.

“But please, will you help me with one thing?” John asked. “Help me to get Cleery to understand that she needs some professional help. Real therapy. I’m a doctor, but my training in psychology is very limited. She needs to talk to someone about what happened. Okay?”

Dorothy nodded, and the two of them began to walk back into the room. But someone in the hallway caught John’s eye. He told Dorothy he would be back in a moment, and he chased down the man in the long, unmistakable coat attempting to hide behind a bouquet of flowers.

“Sherlock!”

“Dammit.”

“What are you doing here? Come to see Cleery?”

“No, John, there’s another case with another patient on this floor and – yes, of course I’m here to see her.”

“Her room is this way,” John pointed over his shoulder.

“I’d rather not have an audience when I speak to her again.”

“Ah. Don’t want me to actually see you get brought down a notch or two, eh? Come on, Sherlock, Dorothy and I will be your safety net for when you get shot down again.”

“Dorothy?”

“Her mother,” John replied as Sherlock groaned. “This way, this way. Come on, now. And such lovely flowers. A nice way to break the ice. I’m impressed.”

John had to practically shove Sherlock into the room, announcing who he’d found. Dorothy stood up and gave Sherlock a hug, thanking him and threatening tears again. Cleery sat up a bit straighter and smoothed her hair with a quick hand.

“Won’t you please sit?” Dorothy offered, and John indicated that Sherlock could use his chair. Sherlock sat uncomfortably, the large vase of flowers still in his hands. It was quiet in the room.

“Those are lovely flowers,” John prompted.

“They really should be imported Birds of Paradise for the price I paid at the hospital’s gift shop. Monopolizing on visitors’ feelings of guilt and sympathy is an inexcusable practice. Um. Here you go, Ms. O’Donnell. I – I hope you enjoy the visual enjoyment they may afford.”

Sherlock thrust the vase at Cleery, but Dorothy stood up and accepted them for her daughter who appeared momentarily slaw-jawed. She recovered quickly.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. They are quite beautiful. And Gerber daisies – you must have known.” John noticed a bit of pink at the high of her cheekbones.

“I noticed them planted in abundance at your home estate.” John also noticed that Sherlock shot Cleery a quick smile and his fingers were tapping on each kneecap. “You are looking – eh, better.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, do you think I might have your autograph?” Dorothy asked. Cleery and Sherlock exchanged a quick glance and both burst out laughing. Certainly, not something John had seen Sherlock do in a very, very long time.

“Absolutely, Mrs. O’Donnell,” Sherlock said, wiping his eyes. “My apologies, but I believe your daughter and I shared a ‘private joke’. Please forgive me.”

“Oh goodness, Mr. Holmes, it’s quite alright. Anything to see my girl smiling again.”

John noticed that Cleery was holding side and though she was smiling, there was pain in her eyes. She noticed John’s concerned look and shook her head. “It’s just the laughing, John. I’m quite alright.”

“Laughing is good for the soul, but not so for fractured ribs. Well, I do think that Sherlock and I have taken quite a bit of your time, and rest for you is the best medicine. I know sleeping at long stretches may be difficult for you right now, so get some cat naps in when you can. And right now, it looks like you could take one,” he concluded as Cleery stifled a yawn.

“I think so,” she said. Her mother kissed Cleery on the forehead and straightened the covers, promising she would be back after a quick lunch in the café. John pulled the blinds closed and switched off the lights as he left the room. Sherlock began to follow the two of them out of the room, but Cleery asked if he could stay for a moment longer.

“Just a moment,” John, the ever-present caretaker conceded. As soon as the door was closed, Cleery sat upright in bed and pulled a bottle from her nightstand drawer.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I thought they’d never leave. Drink?” Even in the darkened room, Sherlock could see the twinkle in her eye.

“Um – well – what is that?” Sherlock quickly regained his mental footing, nearly forgetting this young lady was far from typical. She seemed to have the habit of tugging at the carpet under his feet, just enough to kilter him off balance. It was an impressive skill, and Sherlock wondered if she even knew that was doing it. Her comments did not feel passive aggressive, but Cleery had a way of saying something that was very true in a way…that made it even more true.

“A present from Henry. Thank the gods for Henry. The groom, Mr. Holmes. At my stable.” She offered to his look of confusion, rocking the bottle in her hand to bring Sherlock’s attention back.

“Ah, yes, Henry,” Sherlock accepted the plastic hospital cup she offered him with some of the liquid from the bottle and sniffed. He wanted to ask her about Henry, even though John was specific in his advice to not to interrogate her about the case. But the essence of the liquid in his cup distracted him. “Is this…could this possibly be?”

“Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey,” said Cleery, who took a slow sip and allowed the substance to roll languidly around on her tongue before swallowing it. “A nod to my American heritage – my dad. Best painkiller there is.”

Sherlock took a careful sip, and found himself doing the same thing as Cleery had demonstrated. The flavors were deep and woody and smooth….so much so that when Sherlock finally did swallow the bourbon, he smacked his lips appreciatively.

_Aha, American. Thus, the difference in her accent._

“Another?” offered Cleery.

Sherlock shook his head. Although the warmth dropping from his throat to his stomach was incredibly enjoyable, one shot of bourbon at 11:00 in the morning was quite enough. She stowed the bottle back into the nightstand and Sherlock took her cup and nestled it into his own before tucking them into his coat pocket.

“No sense leaving any incriminating evidence around, right?” he asked. Sherlock could hear her smile.

“Right. Can I ask you a few questions.” It was said in the manner of, sit down, because I’m going to ask you a few questions, like it or not. Sherlock sat down, uncertain of what to expect.

“You read my email.” Again, not a question. Sherlock nodded, but uncertain how well she could see him, replied with a ‘yes’.

“Was it helpful? Did I have enough details? Was there something I could have done better?”

“Oh, well. I see. You would like an assessment of your observation skills.”

“Yes.”

“Under the circumstances, the peculiarities that you took notice of were quite remarkable. You see, not only did you notice them, but you remembered them. Traumatic experiences may lend themselves to periods of blackouts, temporary amnesia, not of which you seemed to suffer.”

“I willed myself to remember. Catalogued them.”

“In your mind palace?” Sherlock offered, eagerly. Could she be more like him than he had originally anticipated? He leaned forward.

“In my what?”

Sherlock delved into an explanation of the concept, only too happy to explain it to a willing audience. Her attention was rapt, Sherlock could tell, but he was thankful for the darkened room. Her presence, her gaze, the way she spoke, was beginning to unnerve him. Not because it made him nervous, but because it was something he was not used to. A strong, beautiful, and damn smart woman. Paying attention to him. It was easy to Sherlock to talk about it to the darkened form on the bed, as if it wasn’t even a person. As if it wasn’t Cleery. When the thought did enter his mind that it was her, he found his tongue would stumble a bit, or he’d have to search for a certain word – which she sometimes would provide, much to his chagrin.

He didn’t know how long he talked, but there was a knock on the door that interrupted him. A nurse entered, turning on the lights and handing Cleery a small cup with pills. Sherlock and Cleery blinked in the sudden light, and the nurse laughed.

“Not interrupting you two, I hope,” she teased.

“You absolutely interrupted something,” Sherlock said. “We were having a perfectly fine conversation until you came in.”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she was joking -,” Cleery offered, seeing Sherlock’s feathers ruffled for the wrong reason.

“Oh -,”

“You know, interrupting something else, in the dark?”

“Right, of course.” Sherlock stood, pulling down his jacket and adjusting his cuffs. “Well, I do have other things to attend to, just can’t sit around talking all day.” He felt the tinge of a blush work his way up into his cheeks, and he busied himself to hide it.

“I appreciate your visit, Mr. Holmes. I learned something new today, and I always enjoy that. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

The nurse ordered Cleery to take the offered pills and left the room, snapping the lights off again on her way out. As Cleery bemoaned the fact that she detested how the pills made her feel, Sherlock was relieved to be in the dark again, as he could feel his cheeks grow hot with an active blush.

“I’ll leave you with this, however,” he offered kindly. “Guitar player.”

“What?”

“Think about it.”

Sherlock listened to his heart thumping – it was loud and it took less than 10 of the profound beats before Cleery answered, her voice bright.

“Man number one – he’s a guitar player! Calluses on fingers of left hand.”

“Well done. You’ll be solving your own crime -,” Sherlock stopped himself quickly. Even for him, this was an uncomfortable thing to say. Or maybe he just didn’t want to say it to her, as it might…hurt her feelings? He wasn’t sure. It was treacherous ground, an inkling of a feeling warned him.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m getting out of the hospital in a few days. Perhaps you could come visit me at my home. Under better circumstances.”

Sherlock stood frozen in the dark room. Would this be a social visit? Did she want to discuss her case? Then he relaxed a fraction, knowing that he would have time to consult with John before any such visit occurred. Perhaps John would even come as well.

“Very well.”


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of our love story.

The cab dropped him off at the end of the O’Donnell’s long driveway, but Sherlock was grateful for the walk. He passed through the gate with the gilded words _“Domum Pacem”_ \- House of Peace in Latin - embellished upon it. He consciously slowed his normally staccato’ed gate, hoping it would slow the beating of his heart as well.

_Why was it thumping so hard? What was this tightening about my chest that made it hard to breathe?_

He wished John were here. John would help him navigate the social clues that bypassed Sherlock’s otherwise keen senses. John would fill in the gaps in the conversations, steer Sherlock away from things he should not be asking…. but Sherlock was glad that John was not here. If there was going to be a conversation, any conversation between Sherlock and Cleery, Sherlock just wanted it to be him and Cleery. He wanted to be able to focus all his attention on her, nuances of social etiquette be damned.

And he wanted all her attention on him.

The air was cool and crisp. A soft breeze swayed the branches of the trees along Sherlock’s walk. The driveway led up to the house, but he turned right towards the stable. There she was.

Cleery stood talking to Henry, her back to Sherlock, dressed in loose jeans and low leather riding boots, in a white blouse with a sky blue scarf around her neck. Henry was walking a horse back and forth in front of her in the area in front of the barn. Henry saw Sherlock first, pointing out his presence with a directional tilt of his chin. She glanced over her shoulder, swaying her long ponytailed hair over her shoulder, and smiled when she saw Sherlock. She and Henry finished their conversation and he walked off with the horse as Sherlock approached.

“Welcome back,” she said, turning on her cane. “Under better circumstances, of course.”

“Much,” Sherlock replied, nodding. He noted the neatness of the place – the hedges properly trimmed, the walkways swept; the barn was stone with wooden trim painted a soft grey. Around the corner was the home her and her mother shared. A covered riding arena was behind the house.

“Won’t you come in?” Cleery motioned to the barn. “There are some friends I would like you to meet.” They walked into the building together, which smelled of oiled leather and sweet hay. There was a hushed, comforting feel to the stable. Sherlock could hear the soft rustle of the horses as they entered.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock ventured. Cleery glanced sideways at him, her cane stomping out a beat. Her bruises continued to fade, but her eyes remained sunken.

_Haunted. Like Mrs. Watson had said._

“You seem to detest small talk, Mr. Holmes, so I’ll conclude that either John prompted you to ask that, or you really care. But to answer the question, I am well. It’s a slow road to recovery and I am a very impatient person. I don’t really want to take the time to get better, but I am being forced to. Mostly by your dear friend, Mr. Watson.”

“He’s helped me in many ways, as well,” Sherlock said.

“I would imagine. Ah, here is my little darling. Meet Winchester’s Red Guard.” A horse’s head appeared from the stall in front of them, stretching to meet them. The horse was hardly ‘little’ – it was one of the tallest, strongest looking Equus Sherlock had ever seen. The horse was a beautiful dark chocolate in color, and it nickered gently, pushing Cleery’s shoulder with his nose. She stroked his face and offered him a carrot, which was ever so gently accepted.

“This, Mr. Holmes, is one of the most obnoxious stallions I have ever ridden. He is fierce, independent, and barely trainable. Strong as an ox – he has carried me through many three-day events. But ever since I came back from – well, now that I’m here, he is a very, very sweet boy. Animals know, Mr. Holmes, they always know.”

“Please, call me Sherlock.”

“Oh, I can’t possibly do that,” Cleery replied, and laughed at the startled expression on Sherlock’s face. “I meant, I can’t do that unless you call me Cleery,” she backpedaled.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied stiffly. He wished he had laughed at her joke, instead of pulling up his ego to shield him. It was as if being regular old Sherlock was not right when he was around her. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin. Itchy. Like a molting snake determined to become something better.

“When will you be able to ride again?” he asked.

“I’m going to start back up in a few weeks. My concussion and ribs still needs to heal a bit more until I can take the jarring of full on riding, but I think that just going on some gentle walks would be good therapy. Have you ever ridden, Mr. Holmes – Sherlock.”

“My brother and I took lessons for many years when we were young. I must say, he enjoyed it far more than I did.”

“I don’t believe you had the correct instructor, then. That’s a shame, as horses are magnificent creatures. I won’t hold it against you,” she said. She held up her chin, a playful smile on her lips. Sherlock noticed that she was a tall girl, certainly not as tall as him, but she didn’t have to look up as far as other people did to meet his eyes. But she had this way of tilting up her chin, with her eyes skyward, when she was being mischievous.

 _Cataloging her tells, are you,_ Sherlock thought.

“I insist that you should come back when I ride again,” Cleery said. “I think that would be great fun.”

They continued down the inside of the barn, stopping at each horse. Cleery gave Sherlock a handful of small carrots to feed to each horse. At the last stall they lingered, Sherlock rubbing a mare behind her ears. The horse had her eyes closed, content at the scratching and the sound of their voices. They began to discuss their mutual love of literature, and discovered they shared favorite authors.

Henry came down the center of the stable with a saddle in his hands. When he saw Cleery, he dropped it and rushed to her side.

“You need to sit down right now, miss. You know you can’t stay up on your feet this long,” Henry admonished. Cleery waved him away, but Sherlock could see the hand resting on her cane was trembling and her face was pale. He cocked an elbow for her to take.

“Yes, I was just taking her to sit down,” Sherlock said. “To -,”

“To the garden,” Cleery said.

“Yes, the garden.”

“Right this way, Sherlock,” Cleery pointed with her cane. Henry crossed his arms and frowned. When they were out of earshot, she whispered a ‘thank you’. Henry could be quite overprotective, she explained. However, her grip on his arm was tight and without it she would have struggled to walk. When they reached the set of cushioned wicker chairs and small side tables set in a cobblestones garden nook under some trees behind the house, Sherlock admonished himself for going on and on about his literary prowess instead of taking her needs under consideration. She was tired, no doubt, the shaking hand on her cane telling.

“You’re not sleeping,” Sherlock said before he could think.

Cleery shot him an accusatory look. “Just can’t help yourself, can you? No, I’m not sleeping. Could you? The horse that those men killed – well, he was like my Watson. My other half. We did everything together. Sure, it was a dumb horse, some people may say. But Denobar and I fit together like hand and glove. He was the most talented, spirited, committed horse I ever knew. And I miss him.” She wiped her hand under her nose and looked away.

“I am sorry,” Sherlock said.

“I believe you are, Mr. Holmes. Thank you.”

A housekeeper came out of the house with a tray of tea and biscuits. Sherlock prepared her cup and handed it to her. Cleery sat back, blowing on the hot tea. They began to talk. It was not small chatty conversation, the kind Sherlock so detested. It was a real conversation. A back and forth about some of their cases, literature again, even horses. It was not all serious, but it was completely genuine. The evening crept upon them, and Sherlock lit the candle that rested on one of the side tables. Neither wanted prepared to leave. Every drop of tea and every crumb was gone.

Sherlock watched her in the glowing candle light. She had pulled a blue wool blanket off on of the chairs and had wrapped it around her shoulders, and the color illuminated her eyes in the glow.

 _I’m fascinated,_ Sherlock realized.

“Can you blow out the light?” Cleery asked. “I want to see the stars.”

Sherlock obliged, and they sat in comfortable silence, only breaking it to identify a constellation. An owl hooted in the distance. In a few minutes, Sherlock could hear the even, deep breathing of his companion. She was finally sleeping.

Sherlock sat in the dark, listening. Unconsciously, his hands formed his thinking pyramid and they rested against his lips. He could not recall the last time he had had a day such as this – leisure, spent in the company of a young lady, enjoyable. Yes, quite enjoyable. He felt slowed down, relaxed. His always deducting brain had dropped to a more reasonable pace. He was very content to sit in the dark, but Henry soon came down the path, a lantern in his hands.

Sherlock raised a finger to his lips before Henry could begin to talk. The groomsman nodded, then indicated that Sherlock should hold the lantern so Henry could pick Cleery up. Sherlock instead stepped forward and lifted the young woman into his own arms. She murmured into his shoulder, her soft breath on his neck making Sherlock’s heart quicken. Henry scowled and went to lead them back to the barn and the apartment that he and Cleery shared. However, Sherlock turned towards the house instead, smiling as he heard a muttered outrage from Henry. But the groom turned and lead the way to the house, opening the front door and telling Sherlock that Cleery’s bedroom was the first one on the right on the second floor before slamming the door shut.

“I know,” Sherlock replied through clenched teeth. Henry was getting on his nerves. He climbed the stairs and entered her dark room and lay her down on the bed. Sherlock walked past the bed to ventured through the glass doors that led out onto a balcony that overlooked the stable. He watched the bobbing light of the lantern as Henry entered the barn. The light in the apartment over the barn soon went out. The lawn below was still lit, however, from the bright moon. Sherlock, hands restfully in his pockets, returned inside and walked the perimeter of Cleery’s room, noting the full bookshelves and the rows of vinyl records showcasing 1950’s and 60’s era American music. His fingers fluttered over the vintage record player, its buttons dirtied and faded from use.

Cleery moaned in the bed behind him.

“No, please….no, no….,” she cried out. Sherlock went to the side of the bed, his eyes watching her tortured face.

“It’s only a dream, Cleery,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep. You need your sleep.”

“Leave me…. alone,” her voice rasped.

“Yes, they are going to leave you alone. Sherlock Holmes is here,” he shrugged off his coat and lay it over her. “You’re protected now, Cleery. You are safe.”

She mumbled again, kicked her legs once or twice, and fell back to sleep. Sherlock released the breath he had been holding sat down on the bed next to her.

What the hell was happening to him? Why was he even here – why did he even care? But he knew. He knew how he wanted to be with her, to protect her, to save her from anything bad that may happen to her ever again. Cleery turned in her sleep and her hand lay against his leg and his blood raced that much more. But such damaged goods? How could he even touch her, knowing that an intimate moment might bring her back to that episode of violence? Why was he even thinking these things?

“Sherlock?” Cleery’s voice was drowsy, and her hand crept out from under his coat and unceremoniously groped his hair. “Yup, that’s you. That’s Sherlock hair.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Sherlock laughed.

“It’s all poufy and stuff. Anyway, good night.”

“Cleery?”

“Mm?”

“Good night.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Perhaps I should go -,” Sherlock’s heart was thrumming so hard in his ears it hurt.

“If you need to go, I understand. World’s greatest detective must have some important plans,” she whispered.

“These are the most important plans I’ve had in a very long time,” he said. He ventured a shaking hand to her head, stroking her hair from her forehead down to its end, repeatedly. He opened his mouth for a moment, unsure of the words. But he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing them out.

“Please don’t make me leave.”

“Then, please stay.” Cleery turned on her back and smiled up at him in the moonlight. “Now kiss -,” but Sherlock was already there. Their lips meet, very softly, hesitantly, Cleery lifting her hand to rest in his soft curls. Sherlock ran a hand down her back, feeling every curve, finally resting his fingers beneath the small of her back. She pulled him down on the bed beside her and they lay in the near-darkness, face to face, breathing hard.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. The words sprouted from his lips and surprised him.

“So are you,” she replied. “In so many, many ways.”

They kissed again, Sherlock stroking her back. He would allow himself nothing further. Even though she exuded an attitude of tenacity, she was still a lady. They pressed their bodies into one another, Sherlock feeling himself suddenly hard.

“Cleery,” Sherlock’s voice wavered as he shifted his body away from hers. “We may want to…just slow down…. just a little.”

“I know. You’re right.”

"You were having bad dreams.”

“That’s why I don’t like to sleep,” she pulled his coat up to her chin.

“Are…are you going to be…,” Sherlock’s whispered question trailed off.

“Okay?”

There was a long silence. Sherlock unconsciously held his breath. He was treading on emotional, treacherous ground. Very unfamiliar.

“I am a very strong person,” Cleery said. She was laying on her back, staring at the dark ceiling. Her chin was tilted up again, but this time its stance was defiant. “I do what I want to do when I set my mind to it. And for once, life has taken a serious sideswipe at me. I don’t deserve it. Granted, I have been sheltered. I’ve had everything I’ve needed – and more. I’ve never been hungry or poor. Or even heartbroken. Until now. The person that I thought I was, the strong, independent person, is suddenly gone. I’m a ship flailing at sea. Sails torn, rudder ripped off. Mast cracked. Do you know what it’s like? I think you are very much like me, Sherlock. We control the world, we don’t let it control us. And when that table turns…”

“But no holes.”

“What?”

“No holes in that ship, which means it can be repaired. And it can sail again. Just like you must be fixed.”

Cleery continued to stare at the ceiling, contemplative, chewing her lip. “How is John?”

“John?” Sherlock was taken aback for a moment.

_Jealous?_

“Yes. He told me he went through some hard times and went to therapy and met you and is much better now. Do you think he’s better now?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to think. He didn’t know much about John’s emotional well-being for sure, but he deducted that he was ‘well’. John didn’t see his therapist very often any more. Certainly, the cane was long gone. Sherlock was guilty of sometimes pushing John’s buttons (and what fun that was!) and he could see that John was happy when he could help solve a case. Sherlock felt good to be around John, so that must mean something, right?

“You don’t really know, do you,” giggled Cleery.

“Well, I…,”

“Oh, you are an interesting creature, Mr. Holmes!” she laughed.

“I said, call me Sherlock,” he said, kissing her.

“Yes, Sherlock,” Cleery hummed into his mouth. The detective felt lightheaded. He just wanted to kiss her, be with her, all night. Just talk and kiss and be close. Yes, of course there were other things, he was a man, but he fully accepted that just was not possible right now. And that was all right with him.

“I think I will go,” Sherlock said, breaking gently away from her. Cleery nodded in the dark.

“I don’t want you to go. I want to be just with you, Sherlock. Why is that? Are we two creatures cut from the same cloth?”

Sherlock stood up and pulled down on his shirt to straighten it. He tugged at his coat, which Cleery relinquished as Sherlock bent down to kiss her.

“You are going to get your own one of these days,” he said, accepting it. “Good night, dear Cleery.”

“Good night, darling Sherlock.”


	6. CHAPTER SIX

“Good God, man!” John came bursting into the flat. “What the _HELL_ are you thinking?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but did not pull his eyes away from the microscope perched on the kitchen table.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Sherlock! Are you getting romantically involved with Cleery?”

Sherlock’s heart thumped in his chest. However, he calmly jotted down some notes before turning to face John.

“Who’s asking?”

“Then it’s true!”

“No, I simply asked, ‘Who’s asking?’”

“Dammit, Sherlock, I am! This girl is a complete emotional mess right now and you go in and start playing with her head? This is the last thing she needs,” John came face to face with Sherlock and raised a finger. “If this is some kind of game you are playing, I will pull your heart out – actually, I won’t because that will prove you are totally heartless. Stay away from her, Sherlock. This is not good for either one of you.”

“John -,”

“No! I don’t want to hear it. You’ll just spout some theory that will drive me crazy and -,”

“John, will you just listen to me -,”

“Sherlock, this is a new low, even for you -,”

“John, I like her very much,” his voice was deep baritone low. Sherlock stared at the slide in his hand, not seeing it, but instead very conscious of the fire rising in his pale cheeks.

There was a silence, filled only for Sherlock by the sound of his blood thumping in his ears.

“You…you….,” John stuttered, his eyes wide.

“You said it yourself. She’s very clever. Smart. Engaging.”

John sputtered and paced around in a tight circle. “Isn’t there some sort of detective code, Sherlock? Not to do – things – with your clients?”

“She’s actually not my client. It’s a Scotland Yard case. We are consultants on the case.”

“So she’s the victim!”

Sherlock slowly replaced the slide. “Yes, and there is no code against that.” He afforded himself the faintest of smiles.

“Come here – come over here, Sherlock. I need to tell you something.” John fell into his chair and pointed to Sherlock’s opposite him. The genius detective slowly pulled himself away from his slides – the latest experiment, the effect of Type A negative blood on different thread count sheets – and when Sherlock was seated, hands in his thought pyramid, looking right at John, John began.

“These three men, Sherlock. They brutally killed her horse in front of her. Then one at a time, they raped her. When they got to the factory, they beat the living – they beat her. Punched her face, choked her until she passed out. Put things inside her.”

Sherlock’s face twisted in disgust and he looked away.

“No, no. You need to hear this. The abuse! They didn’t stop. Do you know what that does to a person’s mind? It traumatizes them to a degree that you and I will never understand. I should say, Sherlock, I don’t think she knows what she’s doing to you right now. It may be an unconscious part of her mind that is seeking to regain control of her life. Of trying to regain what was lost. With some hero complex thrown in. And you are too close, too blind, for once in your life, to see it. Do you understand?” John slumped back in his chair, exhausted from his tirade.

“How did you find out?” Sherlock finally asked, his voice still low. He willed the color in his cheeks to disappear, to no avail.

“She told me. We were having tea at a café. We’ve been meeting regularly. She won’t go visit a therapist, but she’ll talk to me. I don’t know how much help I’ve been. I don’t have the training. But at least she’s talking. Today she told me about last night – how you two were together.”

“We weren’t together, _together_ ,” Sherlock snapped.

“I know that, but it was ‘together’ enough. Cleery is going to implode sometime very soon. And you just shortened the timeline.” John stood up and resumed his aggravated pacing. “Are you any closer to solving this case?”

“John, sit down.”

“You’ve been distracted.”

“John, sit down.”

“Maybe you should just let this one go, Sherlock. Let someone else take it over and focus on something else. For Cleery’s sake.”

Since John would not sit down, Sherlock stood up to his full height.

“John, I have never walked away from a case. I’m not about to now. So now you need to sit down, calm down, and let me handle this. And may I remind you, you are the one that encouraged me to go see her.”

The former military captain rounded on his heel to face Sherlock, jaws on both of the men set tight.

“John, are you jealous?” Sherlock asked quietly. Watson’s jaw dropped and his eyes opened wide. He held up a finger but words failed to come, instead his mouth worked soundlessly. Finally, he dropped his hand and shook his head, an angry smile on his lips.

“You are such a bastard,” he finally whispered. “You think this is about you. About my so-called feelings for you. Let me tell you, Mr. Holmes, any feelings I have for you are right now completely and totally in the very aggravated category. So, I’m telling you, stay away from Cleery. If you think what you feel for her is any kind of affection, you are wrong. Because you are incapable of such emotions. You are just so damned pleased to meet someone that will worship at the altar of Sherlock Holmes. Just like me. I’m a fool for doing so, I’ve always known that. And I’m going to make damned sure that Cleery doesn’t make that same mistake.”

“Where is she now?”

“You didn’t listen to a word I just said,” John said hopelessly. He collapsed in his chair, head in his hands. “She went home after we finished our chat. I did not give her any indication of how utterly angry I am at you.”

“What did she say about me?”

“Sherlock, for God’s sake -,” John sputtered.

“I would like to know what she said about me, John,” Sherlock stood, his voice finally raised in anger. “Your particular insight into this matter will only aid in improving the situation.”

“All right, all right, Sherlock. You want to know what she said? Fine. First, she told me about how she could feel her teeth shift after they punched her eleven times. Then she described how when she was lying on that mattress she attempted to pry a rusty piece of pipe from the wall, because once she got it lose she was going to use it to kill herself. Ah, but then we jumped right into the man that saved her from all of that – the great Sherlock Holmes! How she got to kiss him and he took care of her and lay his almighty coat of justice over her.”

Both men were silent for many minutes. Finally, John spoke, his voice very low.

“You need to think very, very carefully about what you do next. You saved this girl, Sherlock. She is alive because of you and that God-awful, clever little brain of yours. But there is more to this case than rescuing a victim. With this kind of crime, those men are with Cleery, still. Can you understand what I’m saying?” John’s voice became gentle. “She told me that you told her about your mind palace. She told me that she took everything that happened to her, everything that she remembers about these men, and put it in the basement of her own mind palace. In the basement. Even you can’t tell me that’s a good thing.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock went to the window overlooking Baker Street, arms crossed. What did one do next in a relationship – if this is what it could be called, this thing between Cleery and him? John was right, he did need to tread carefully. First off, he was not good at relationships. And to get all the basement items thrown into the mix…

“Okay, what do I do, John. Tell me. You know me better than anyone. You probably care about me more than anyone. If I wanted to continue…to, eh, see Ms. O’Donnell, what should I do.” Sherlock raised a finger to John’s immediate protest without even turning around. “Since it seems I have become somewhat involved with her, I doubt that just giving her a phone call to, what is it called, ‘dump’ her, would not be recommended. And, it appears that having a relationship with Cleery would be beneficial to me – and to her – that may not be the proper action anyway. So, John, if you truly care for me, and if you truly care for Ms. O’Donnell, then tell me, John, what should I do.” Sherlock continued to face out the window, but tilted his head to indicate that he was waiting for John’s response.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John took a big breath. “I know you need, eh, practice in the ways of intimate human interaction – and I mean that in a mentally intimate way - but learning about it in this circumstance is far from ideal.”

“Are there any persons out there that would be perfect candidates to learn from?” Sherlock waved a hand at the street below. “Don’t we learn best from those that have the most to teach us? Cleery is far from normal, far from perfect. I know you have noticed that she and I are remarkably alike in many ways. I do believe we would be good for each other.”

John joined him at the window.

“Sherlock, I don’t want to take anything away from you, anything that could better you as a man or a detective. I think that Cleery is the person that could do both. In time. Her assault is too fresh, and this is too soon. She needs too much right now, and I don’t think you have the skills to support what she’s going through. I just, I just don’t want to see either of you get hurt.”

“Thank you, John. I will think about everything that you’ve said,” Sherlock turned to look at his best friend. “I truly will.”

“Okay, all right. Thank you,” John released a large breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I’ve got to go. Let’s talk later, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, and remained at the window until John left. And for a very long time thereafter.

###

 

**I’m in town, meeting John for tea. See you after?**

It was two days later, and Sherlock was busy catching up on experiments in his kitchen. He didn’t notice the text message until after John had returned from his tea with Cleery. Swearing under his breath, he texted her back as John settled in.

_Just saw this. You still in town?_

**Yes, don’t panic. I figured you were busy. Don’t want to trouble you.**

_No trouble. Hold on._ Sherlock lowered the flame on the Bunsen burner so the liquid it was heating would not evaporate too quickly.

**See? You’re busy.**

_Where are you?_

**Hyde Park.**

_More specific? Its 350 acres._

**Silly. Where would I be? Deduce.** Sherlock felt a bit lightheaded at her request. It took him but a second -

_Stables._

**Fascinating. Come here.**

_Leaving now._

“John, be a good man and shut off that flame in 20 minutes.”

“Heading out?”

“Yes, for a bit,” Sherlock put on his coat and pulled up the collar.

“You should wear the hat. She likes the hat, remember?”

“What?!”

John raised his wary eyes from the bubbling beaker he had been placed in charge of. “Sherlock, you may consider me a bumbling idiot most of the time, but I have my moments of clarity. Wear the damned hat.”

Sherlock scowled but grabbed the hat on his way out.

It took Sherlock a good 40 minutes to reach the park. He kept checking his phone, but there were no additional messages. No, ‘hurry up’ or ‘where are you now’s that John usually got twelve times a day from his various girlfriends. But he was already realizing how different Cleery seemed to be from other girls, in his limited and often observational-only experiences. They had not communicated since that night at her house, in her bed. Sherlock had needed the space, the time to think. He felt that perhaps Cleery thought the same thing.

Cleery was leaning against the fence that surrounded a riding arena, speaking to a man on a horse just inside the fence. Sherlock slowed his pace just a little bit so as not to appear overeager to see Cleery, but that now-familiar too hard of a heartbeat in his chest had reappeared. Sherlock stopped and stood behind her, uncertain how to greet her. It was the man on the horse that finally took notice of Sherlock and moved his eyes from Cleery to the detective. Cleery turned, her eyes narrowed at first, but they she opened them wide when she saw Sherlock. A wide smile spread across her face and Sherlock gave her a small grin in reply.

“Hello, Sherlock. This is my friend, James Harroway. James, Sherlock Holmes.”

The men exchanged pleasantries while Sherlock performed a quick assessment. The young man was handsome, no doubt, with keen blue eyes and a long, strong rider’s body.

_Wealthy. Middle child, his mother’s favorite –_

Cleery placed a hand on Sherlock’s forearm. “Shall we go?”

Sherlock nodded in reply and crooked his elbow so Cleery’s arm could go through it – not only for support, but to show this young fool James that Cleery was with him.

“James is an acquaintance,” Cleery said. “An Olympic hopeful, too. We often train together.”

She still had her cane, and the walking was slow, but neither minded. The weather was a bit chilly today, and Cleery was wearing a red wool coat and black scarf. The bruises on her face had faded to tinges of light yellow and green across her right cheek and circling her eyes. Her hair was in a loose braid down her back. Sherlock remembered how he had first seen that hair snarled around the lower branches in the forest and he shivered.

“Cold?”

“No. You?”

“No, I’m fine. Sorry to be moving so slow. I went riding yesterday and probably over did it a bit,” Cleery had to stop walking to recover from a fit of coughing. She winced and put a hand on her side.

“Riding already? I thought you needed a few more weeks. I see your ribs still hurt.”

“Yes, but…mentally I needed it. Just a slow walk through the forest.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Cleery sighed and stopped so they could face each other. Her chin lifted, her eyes at the sky. She was thinking. After a few tense moments, her eyes dropped to meet his. It took a moment for Sherlock to clue into what she was saying, because when he saw her eyes, he could only think of one word:

_Haunted._

“Sherlock. You’re right. It was more than a gentle walk. I apologize for attempting to deceive you. I forgot the company I am keeping. I can fool most anyone, but you…,” her mouth hinted at a playful smile, but then her face turned serious. “Since we are all about honesty here, I need to know. Are you all right with what happened at my house a few days ago, because if you want to forget about the whole thing, let’s just get that out in the open right now.”

“Cleery. I – I don’t want to forget about it,” he clenched his eyes and squeezed the words out. It was so hard. “I hope you don’t want to forget about it. I should have called you afterwards. You’ll find I lack the proficiency at social aspects of a – a -,”

“Relationship?” she finished for him, smiling. Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded, feeling the uncomfortable tingling of a blush in his cheeks. “Oh, Sherlock,” Cleery whispered. She held the palm of her hand against his reddening cheek, and he closed his eyes and leaned into it. “I’ll make you a promise. I’ll let you know if you piss me off. But, it would take a whole lot to get me there. I’m not a demanding girl. I don’t know what I can give, and it may not be enough. So, between the two of us, let’s see what parts we can put together, and if they even fit.”

Sherlock turned and crooked his arm again for her to take. She coughed again for a few minutes, gasping.

“I think you’ve had a big day. Let’s get you home,” he said, feeling the weight of her body press against him. Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat for a moment at the feel of it. He wanted more than anything to be close – closer to her again, but it was best to just take another break. Small steps. John would approve.

“I’m busy catching up with some classes tomorrow, but come over the day next for dinner.” Cleery said in that, ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you’ manner Sherlock had come to appreciate. He accepted, then put her in a cab home. Sherlock decided he would walk to Baker Street. It would be a long walk, but he decided he needed it. On the way, he received a call from Lestrade that Cleery’s captures, and others in the drug ring, had been found and captured. However, the man orchestrating entire production was nowhere to be found. Could Sherlock help?

“I’m sorry, Lestrade, I’m off the case,” the detective informed him. “Conflict of interest, I’m afraid. You’re on your own for this one.”


	7. CHAPTER SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gettin' a little bit racy here...hold on!

Dinner’s at Cleery’s house was a much more relaxed affair than Sherlock had anticipated. A tidy buffet had been set out by the help on the enormous white granite kitchen island and Cleery and Sherlock filled their plates. She led him out to the great room where a fire had been set in the fireplace. Two cozy armchairs with accompanying side tables had been pulled up to the fire, and it was there they sat, plates on their laps. One entire side of the room, which Sherlock could not even see the other side of, as it was so large and draped in shadows from the fire - consisted of floor to ceiling windows. The view was the same a Cleery’s room, just ground level, overlooking the barn and paddocks. Built in bookshelves lined the walls, except where two life size portraits hung on opposing walls. One was of an elegant ballerina, posed on point, each limb stretched as tight as a bow. The other portrait was of a man standing next to a horse. The man was in full equestrian dress of tall black boots, black jacket with a white shirt and black tie, and tan jodhpurs. His hard hat was tucked under his arm and the reins of the horse hung loosely in one hand. The horse was standing, ears pricked, his head over the man’s shoulder.

“Your parents?” Sherlock inquired. His host nodded. “My mom is back over in Russia, she’s a ballet teacher there. Dad passed away when I was ten years old. He was an American equestrian champion. I spend a lot of time in Kentucky with him until he passed.”

“Yes, _American_! The accent, the music, the bourbon. I mean, I’m very sorry. You must miss him.”

“Oh, Sherlock! Yes. My mother attempted to make a ballerina out of me, but you can imagine how well that went over. I would be dressed in a pink tutu, playing in the manure pile,” Cleery said with a laugh.

“That’s all right, I played pirates. Not quite as messy.”

They ate for a few moments in silence, then Cleery said, “I saw John yesterday.”

“Funny, I did, too,” Sherlock teased.

“Well, he’s quite a popular fellow! Do you know where I might get his autograph?” Cleery laughed, which turned into a fit of coughing.

“I thought you already had one,” Sherlock said, eyes dancing.

“Well, that’s what I do, I get beat up and then get the signatures of my saviors.”

“Oh,” Sherlock studied his plate.

“I am sorry,” Cleery said, reaching out from her chair and touching his arm. “It’s not something to be laughed about. It makes you feel uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable, too. It’s on my mind a bit more, now that they have the men in custody.”

“Yes, Lestrade told me,” Sherlock said, covering her hand with his own. “Do you have to go to the station to identify them?”

“No, Greg said under the circumstances and with my description, I will not have to do that until later. Knowing that what I said about them, and have that match actual people….it just makes this whole ordeal a bit more real.” She shook her head. “I often would think this is just a bad dream. That this could not have possibly happened. To me.”

“Cleery, John said it would be good if you spoke to someone about all this.”

She pulled her arm away abruptly, her eyes narrowed. “I’m talking to John. I’m talking to you. You were both there, you know the story, I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t have to start from the beginning. I don’t want to bring it up from my basement. The memories of all this are fine where they are.”

Cleery stood up from her chair and brought her plate into the kitchen. When she returned, she had a bottle of bourbon in one hand and two glasses balanced in the other. She poured a glass for each of them. He pushed the food around on his plate, glancing up now and again to look at Cleery. She was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, knees under her chin and one arm wrapped tightly around her shins. Her chin jutted out just a bit, resting on her knees. Her other hand held the glass of bourbon, gently rocking the liquid back and forth. Cleery was considering the fire, but her eyes were not focused, not seeing. The liquid orange of the flames danced upon her skin in the darkening room.

“I apologize, Sherlock. I – I am just not sure how to handle the idea of speaking to someone unfamiliar. Someone new that doesn’t know anything about me. Someone that I have to explain myself and my feelings to.”

“You didn’t know John or I.”

“Listen, when someone pulls you out of an abandoned factory, bloodied and in her bra and panties, you know that person. I was literally stripped down, emotionally and physically. You two saved my life. What more of a connection is needed?”

“John or I don’t have the training. We don’t know what’s right or wrong to say to you. We don’t – I don’t know – how to make you better,” Sherlock’s tone was gentle. He set aside his plate and grabbed the glass of bourbon and sat down next to her on the floor. His legs were stretched out long in front of him, and he rested his weight on the palms of his hands behind him on the floor.

Cleery covered a cough with her hand.

“Just give me some more time. I don’t often warm up to people like I did to you and John. The thought of some person, sitting there and judging me, taking notes, staring at me over their eyeglasses and asking me, ‘tell me about your mother,’ it’s a bit much to take in right now. I’ll give it thought.”

Sherlock nodded and raised his glass. “To rebuilding the ship.”

A broad smile stretched across Cleery’s face. “Yes, to rebuilding the ship.” They clinked glasses and took a drink. Cleery finally released her legs from their folded position and stretched them alongside Sherlock’s.

 _I should probably kiss her now. Dinner is done, we are sitting by the fire with drinks, this is where I kiss her again_ , Sherlock thought. That tight band had wrapped around his chest again. He looked over at Cleery, who was still staring into the fire. It was getting warm so close to the flames, so he took another sip of the bourbon for courage. At the sound, Cleery turned to him.

“Getting a taste for that bourbon -,” Cleery began, and Sherlock kissed her. He caught her with her mouth a bit open, the taste of the rich liquid upon her lips. He kissed her gently, enjoying the soft movement of her lips upon his, and he released the breath he had been holding and the tight band around his chest released. Cleery brought up a soft hand and placed in on his cheek. They stopped for a moment, resting forehead upon forehead. Sherlock wrapped one arm around Cleery, leaning her gently back on the carpet and he rested on his elbow beside her, looking down into her eyes. Her pupils were large in the shadow of Sherlock’s body, watching him. Her hand still rested on his cheek, and now she ran it around his ear, through some of his curly locks, down the back of his neck, pulling him down onto her. Now both of Cleery’s hands ran through his hair, massaging the base of his neck, as Sherlock kissed along her jawline and down her neck. She smelled like the barn, of hay and leather and sweet saddle soap.

Sherlock wanted to take it slow. He didn’t want to scare her, he wanted to know that she could enjoy the touch of a man again. He, himself, was nervous. His hands shook just the slightest as he caressed a strand of hair off her face.

“All right?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Cleery replied, her voice wavering. Cleery’s hair had loosened from the braid, fanning out around her head. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, her breath coming fast.

_God, you are so beautiful. This bumbling fool does not deserve you._

Then he noticed large, red splotches on her neck. He stroked the patches with the back of his fingers.

“We can stop,” Sherlock said. “We should stop.”

Cleery’s eyes flew open. “No, please, Sherlock. I want this.”

He shook his head sadly. “It’s too soon. Your heartbeat and respirations are elevated. You are showing signs of stress.” He touched her neck gently to indicate the angry hives, then slid his long fingers along her jawbone and up her cheek where the last vestiges of bruises were still visible.

“We don’t have to…you know. We can just be a bit more, eh, together than last time. That’s all I want,” Cleery’s words came slowly, her hand back on his cheek, her eyes searching his. “Just a little at a time…to help me get through this. Please.” Her hand went to the back of his head again, pulling him close, pulling herself up to him. “Please.”

Cleery kissed his neck, soft touches along his skin that gave him goosebumps. Her hands crept up under his shirt, her cool hands against his warm skin.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to pull on his awesome powers of self-control, but it was beyond his grasp. Instead, he relinquished. Judgement be damned. He brought his hands up under her shirt. Cleery cried out, her back arching her breasts into his palms. His mouth found hers again as she unbuttoned her shirt and then his. Finally, skin to skin, they groped, they pulled on each other. It was impossible for Sherlock to get enough of her. He could not kiss her enough, he could not hold her close enough. He wanted to jump in the deep well that was Cleery, to dive under its waters and drown.

As one, they shifted so Sherlock was on his back and Cleery’s body nestled on top of him. Sherlock groaned as her body pressed down on him, her thigh finding his erection. He lay his head back against the carpet, attempting to suppress the tremor that ran through his body.

“Cleery…,” he rasped.

“Oh, to hold you, to touch you….,” she kissed him. “How I’ve dreamed of this, you have no idea, my darling hero.” Her lips danced across the sensitive skin of his neck, her fingers trailing up and down his chest, coyly tracing around each muscle. Sherlock licked his lips and squeezed her bicep where he was holding her.

“Those sweet, old songs I listen to…I should play them for you. I think you’d like them,” she said, and she began to sing. It was a bit off key, some of the words were a bit breathy, but she sang:

 _Someday, I don't know how,_  
_I hope he'll hear my plea,_  
_Some way, I don't know how,_  
_He'll bring his love to me._

 _Dream lover, until then,_  
_I'll go to sleep and dream again,_  
_That's the only thing to do,_  
_Until all my lover's dreams come true,_  
_Cause I want a boy to call my own,_  
_I want a dream lover,_  
_So I don't have to dream alone…_

Sherlock realized too late that this was a distraction for her to unfasten his pants. He began to sit up, but Cleery placed a quick hand on his chest.

“Sherlock, don’t move.” She nestled her head in the curve of his neck, her sweet breath and held down one of his wrists with one hand. The other moved down over the sweating muscles of his chest, over his belly, and down into his pants. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as he heard himself cry out a noise that was a mixture of a groan and her name. Her hand embraced him, up and down. Sherlock felt his hands grow into hard fists and he bit his lower lip. His breath came is quick gasps as he grew closer, Cleery’s hot breath against his neck, the sweet smell of her body -

With a gasp, Sherlock felt sudden release. The power of it made his body convulse for a moment and then he rode the wave of the orgasm, mouth now open, half-sitting up, his arms around Cleery, his hands tingling, wanting to grab her so tightly so he would have something to hold on to, but instead he was floating, his eyes clenched and a full flush on his cheeks. She still held him, caressed him, until every last throb was gone and Sherlock pulled her onto his lap, pulling her into him, her head under his chin, stroking her hair.

Sherlock rubbed his chin on her forehead. “You all right?”

Cleery responded with a contended sigh. “Yes. Very. Was that okay?”

“Yes. That was very okay. Thank you. Do you...,” Sherlock was uncertain what to do now. It would be selfish if it was just him on the receiving end tonight, but he did not know how to communicate this to Cleery. He didn’t know how to ask her what she wanted, if she wanted anything.

As if to answer, she slid off his lap and knelt on the floor in front of him and began buttoning her shirt. Sherlock gazed at her body, something he had not really appreciated or even noticed before this. Certainly, he had noticed she was a very fit woman, with a slender waist and slim legs. But now he could see Cleery’s firm, flat belly, the sweet curve of her breasts above her lace bra, the muscles in her shoulders from years of working horses that moved as she buttoned. There in the shadow of her shirt were the deep bruises of purple and black that marked her fractured ribs. Sherlock felt a twitched of a frown, but Cleery smiled shyly, know he was watching her, then reached over and began to button his shirt. Sherlock did not take his eyes off her for an instant, feeling her tender tugs as she buttoned, enjoying the feel of her hands as she smoothed his shirt over his chest.

“Is there a place I can clean up?”

“Of course,” Cleery said, pouring herself some more bourbon. “There is a bathroom down the hallway, first left.”

Sherlock hitched his pants up as he stood, then trotted down the hallway where Cleery had pointed. After rummaging through some drawers, he found a flannel. He cleaned himself up and refastened his pants, and caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Of course, his hair was wild, soft ringlets spouting out from all over, and he finger-combed them to a more discretionary style. He ran the cold water and rinsed his face, trying to cool down. His body was running at a feverish pace, but his brain was…. quiet. Well, not completely, but more so than normal. He was relaxed.

_Folks are right. I really do need to get laid more._

Sherlock finished up and upon his return to Cleery down the hallway, heard her raised voice in the kitchen. Sherlock came into the great room but stayed against the wall in the shadows. He could see Henry and Cleery in the kitchen, one of either side of the kitchen island.

“I can have whoever I want over here, Henry. It is my house.”

“Cleer, listen to me. It’s just not right. He’s this big-shot detective and he’s got girls fallin’ all over him. Dames in distress. He’s usin’ you.”

“Henry, get the _hell_ out of here,” Cleery’s voice raised an octave.

“Come back to the barn, miss. We’ll play cards. I can protect you there.”

“Get _OUT_!” There was the sound of smashing glass as Cleery swept her arm over the island, pushing all the dinner dishes to the ground.

Sherlock rushed to her side, holding her as she sank to the ground, hands hiding her face.

“Get out, get out, get out,” Cleery repeated. Henry stood, shaking his head, his hands splayed on the countertop.

“I think you should leave,” Sherlock told him, eyes narrowed. “Now.”

Henry dropped his head to his chest for a moment, then slapped the granite with his hands.

“I’m watching you. Don’t think I’m not watching you,” he muttered to Sherlock, his leathered face twisted. He turned and left.

Cleery had become a huddled mess in Sherlock’s arms, her hands twisted in her hair, pulling it over her face and she was making a despairing sound that was a mix of a wail and haggard coughing.

“Come on, come on. Away from this mess,” Sherlock soothed. He stood her up and guided her to sit on the floor in front of the fire. He left her for only a moment to throw a few logs on the dying fire as a chill was beginning to seep into the room.

Sherlock knelt next to Cleery, holding her against his chest. Her breathing slowed and she quieted. Henry must have informed someone to come clean up, as there was the sound of footsteps and cleaning from the kitchen.

"Don't leave, okay?" she pleaded.

“It’s all right, Cleery. I’ll stay,” Sherlock said. “What Henry said, it’s not true.”

“Sherlock,” she whispered. He leaned his head closer to hers which was tucked against his chest.

“You can talk to me,” he encouraged.

“Then I’ll tell you. No one tells me what to do. No one tells me if I’m safe or not safe, if I’m well or unwell. No one tells me where to be or to play bloody cards,” she said. Sherlock stayed wisely silent. Let her talk when she talks, John had instructed him. Don’t interrupt, don’t deduce for her, and don’t think that anything that she says will be irrelevant. Cleery does not have an ounce of drama in her, so when she says something, it won’t be frivolous. It will be important.

“No one hurts me, or ties me up. No one kills what is important to me. No one takes anything away from me. No one, no one, no one.” Cleery raised her head so that her forehead rested on his cheek.

“Do you know I haven’t even cried? Not a bloody single tear. Even when they killed Denobar. They kept looking at me, making me watch that horse’s death throws, wondering why I wasn’t crying. They hit me, and choked me, and hurt me, but not a single tear. Not even a plea for mercy. But I was going to show them. When I was in the warehouse I had found this rusty pipe on the wall. I’m sure John told you. I was working it back and forth for hours. And when it broke off, it was going to have a marvelously sharp razor’s edge.” Sherlock felt prickles go down his spine. “But they moved me to another part of the building, away from that pipe. They didn’t know about it. They were far too obtuse. I don’t know why they moved me. It would have just taken me another five minutes and I would have had that pipe. And you know me by now, Sherlock. I would have done it. It would have given me immense satisfaction. But now I’m so glad – that – they moved me. I’m so glad I’m alive.” Cleery fell forward into Sherlock’s arms. He felt her tremble and heave, but no crying.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” Sherlock said, kissing her hair. “Let’s get you to bed, all right? Let me help you.” Cleery nodded and allowed Sherlock to guide her up to her bedroom. He simply lifted the covers and she crawled in. He sat in a chair in the corner of the room, watching her. He knew she didn’t sleep for a very long time, as he watched her silhouette blinking eyes, staring into the nothingness of the ceiling.

_Haunted._

It was not until her eyes slowly closed and her breathing became quiet and regular that he allowed his own eyes to rest.

###

**Tell me you are not where I think you are.**

_Good morning, John. Where would that be?_

**I just continue to waste my breath on you.**

_Calm down. My neck is very sore from sleeping in an armchair all night._

**It better be. Lestrade’s got a case for us. What time do you want to meet at the station?**

_In one hour._

**K.**

Sherlock pushed himself out of the armchair and Cleery stirred, drowsily opening her blue eyes and seeking his.

“All right?” she asked.

“Well – yes. You were the one that was upset last night.”

Cleery grimaced and retreated under the covers like a turtle in its shell. “I’m not sure what came over me, Sherlock. I don’t consider myself an emotional girl.”

Sherlock knelt by her bed so they were face to face. “Cleery, you are emotional. And you should be. That is what I appreciate about you so much. You are a version of me –good looking, clever,” Cleery began to giggle as Sherlock continued. “But you have more of a sense of people and the world than I ever will. You are helping me see it. So be emotional for me, please. Don’t stop.” He pushed the hair off her face and kissed her forehead, pressing his lips gently upon her skin for a long while. He felt heated to her, but she was so wrapped in the comforter he dismissed it. She coughed, the noise wet and deep.

“I’ll see you soon,” she whispered drowsily. “Go get some bad guys. Oh, and take one of the cars. It will take forever for a cab to get here. Keys are in the kitchen, bottom cupboard. Your choice.”

“My…. choice?” Sherlock asked, but Cleery was nestled deep in the covers, the soft flush of sleep on her face. Sherlock skipped down the stairs and breezed into the kitchen, almost knocking into a maid with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Sorry, sir!” the maid stuttered.

“No, no, my apologies,” said Sherlock cheerily. “Can you direct me to the car keys, please?”

The maid nodded and opened a cupboard that had set of keys dangling on its door, each neatly labeled. Some were marked ‘spare house’ or ‘stable’ but there was a row just for cars, making Sherlock’s mouth water:

Range Rover  
Jaguar XF  
Aston Martin  
Vauxhall Astra  
Chevy Impala  
Ford Mustang

He chose the Aston Martin and asked the maid where the garage was located.

“Cup of tea first, Mr. Holmes?” she offered him the tray. He nodded and the maid, who introduced herself as Trudy, directed him to a breakfast nook in the kitchen. As Sherlock sipped his tea and kneaded the knot in his neck, he gave Trudy a quick assessment.

_Fifty to fifty-five years old. Mother to one child – no, two. One has died. On arthritis medication. Eh, that’s enough._

“How is Ms. Cleery feeling this morning?” Trudy asked, bringing Sherlock a napkin.

“Stchill schleeping,” Sherlock replied, his mouth full of the delicious biscuits.

“Oh, that’s so good. She needs her rest. But she always sleeps well after she visits with you, Mr. Holmes. You have a calming effect on the girl. Some nights – even before all this happened – she’d be up so late, walking the grounds, watching the stars, reading, it was like the girl barely needed sleep at all. But you know now, she really needs to heal. Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes, I’ve just been rattling on.”

Sherlock waved her on, for once unbothered.

“She loves to read. Sometimes she would find a part of a book that she would have to share so she would come find us and read to my husband and I – he’s the groundskeeper. It seems like she would be lonely, out here with just the help and the horses, her mother away, her father passed on. But it’s how it was meant to be for her. It suits her.” Trudy and Sherlock looked up at the sound of footsteps coming through the back door. “This is my husband, Roland. Roland, Mr. Holmes.”

Roland, a broad-chested and rotund man, gave the detective a hearty handshake that rattled his teeth.

“Morning, Mr. Holmes. Glad to see the bad guys been caught,” Roland said as he picked up a cup of tea that appeared to be a thimble in his giant hands. “That eases some of what that poor girl’s been through.”

Sherlock nodded and sat back, wiping his lips and studying the couple. “How long have you two worked here?”

Trudy cleared his plate and poured him a second cup of tea. “Just after Cleery was born…Roland, it must be twenty years or more now. Especially after Mr. O’Donnell passed on, the misses really needed our help.”

“Yet, you are not surrogate parents to Cleery.”

“Oh, no, it’s not like that. Cleery never needed us like that. Even as close as she is to Henry, he never was a father figure to her. Cleery treats us with absolute respect…,” she paused.

“But we’re still the help,” Roland finished. “It’s not in a bad way. There’s just a line. She does ‘er thing, we do ours. Make no mistake, she’s very kind. Bonus on our birthdays, holiday off, whatever we need. An excellent employer. Trudy says you need to be taken to the garage, Mr. Holmes? I’m on my way out there now. Chose the Aston, eh? Good choice.”

Sherlock took a last draw on his cup, thanked Trudy, and followed the lumbering Roland out of the house to a separate large building behind the house. Roland opened the door and turned on the lights and Sherlock stepped in, amazed.

The six cars that he could have chosen from were lined in a perfect row before him. Each was polished and cleaned as if they had just rolled off the showroom floor. But there were two additional rows of cars behind these – an additional twelve cars in equality impressive condition. Sherlock recognized them as American models ranging from the 1930’s to the 1970’s.

“Cleery’s private collection. Actually, was ‘er dad’s collection. Most not been driven in a long time, but all kept up. Some she brought over from America. Don’t see many of them driving ‘round here.”

“Fascinating.”

Roland opened on of the four garage bay doors and Sherlock revved up the Aston Martin – a deep shade of hunter green – and headed into town to meet with Lestrade and John.

###

“I must say, Sherlock, you are on fire,” Lestrade praised him. Sherlock had just solved two cases without even leaving Lestrade’s desk and was deep into the third.

“Don’t talk, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, a half-grin crinkling his cheek.

“Ah, I know, I know, it raises the stupid the in room,” Greg rolled his eyes. “I got one more for you, let me go get it.”

John looked up from the file he was studying to say something.

“Not now, John,” Sherlock said.

“No, no, I wasn’t going to say a thing. Not…a…. thing.”

Sherlock flipped the file closed and turned to John. “It was the brother-in-law,” he said. “Obviously.”

John sighed and slid his file on the desk and his cell phone began to ring. He answered it with a look of concern on his face.

“Dorothy? Everything all right?” He talked for a few moments, shrugging his coat on while holding the phone to his ear and indicating that Sherlock should do the same. “We’ll head there right now. St. Bart’s? I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” He hung up and began walking out of Lestrade’s office, talking over his shoulder to Sherlock.

“Cleery’s back in the hospital. The maid found her collapsed in her room. They called Dorothy, but she’s still in Russia, trying to get a flight back. Let’s go.”

Sherlock needed no further urging, and they were soon in the Aston Martin – which John raised his eyebrows at but did not question.

“Nothing happened last night, John,” Sherlock said to his best friend while in the car. “Between Cleery and I. Henry was there and got her very upset, and she talked to me. A little bit. And I put her to bed.” Sherlock filled John in on what Cleery had said to him. John stared straight ahead, processing what the detective was telling him.

“Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for being there for her.”

Sherlock gave a half-nod in reply, only hoping that what he had done had been enough.


	8. CHAPTER EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A secret is revealed.

"Rib fractures which are painful make it difficult to breathe deeply or cough properly. This can make it difficult to clear mucus in the chest, leading to chest infections. Pain relief helps to prevent this, but apparently, the patient has not been taking any. The full prescription was found in her bathroom,” the doctor explained to John outside of Cleery’s room. Sherlock was already inside. “She needs to take her medicine, and she needs to take it easy. Per the staff, she’s been out riding every day. I specifically told her she needed rest, Dr. Watson. She’ll only get worse before she gets better if she chooses not to follow doctors’ orders. She’s still healing from fractured ribs and a concussion, for goodness sake.”

John thanked the doctor and opened the door to Cleery’s darkened room a few inches. Sherlock had pulled a chair up to her bed, his back to John. His scarf and coat had been tossed on the floor in haste. He could see Cleery’s face turned to Sherlock, her eyes adoringly up him, her face flushed with fever against the hospitals bleached white pillow. Sherlock was bent close to her, talking quietly, holding her hand against his chest. A bedside light cast a soft glow upon them both, making the scene surreal and dreamlike. John closed the door softly and pulled out his phone to call Dorothy. He informed her that her daughter was in the best possible hands, and not to worry. Dorothy explained that the Russian Ballets opening night was two days away, and it probably would not be until after that she could be back home.

This certainly gave John pause. Dorothy did not seem like a cruel woman, just not close to her daughter. Separate lives. But John himself could not fathom not dropping everything to come to their side should he ever have a child. He hung up with Dorothy, took a deep breath and knocked gently on the door before walking in.

Sherlock shifted only in the slightest to acknowledge his presence. John hung up Sherlock’s coat and scarf and then came to the end of the bed where he placed a gentle hand upon Cleery’s shin. She shifted her eyes away from Sherlock and smiled at John. Dark rings circled her eyes and her voice was thick with sickness.

“You didn’t need to come, either of you,” she said.

“We wouldn’t hear of it,” replied John. “You’re our friend, Cleery. We take care of our friends.” John glanced at Sherlock, whose delicate curls were hiding his face as he leaned close to the patient. Sherlock’s hands were intertwined with one of Cleery’s, holding it anxiously close to his chest.

 _Anxiously._ John had never seen Sherlock anxious before. John cleared his throat, aware that Cleery’s fevered eyes were still on him.

“Ah, listen, I was talking to the doctor. Cleery, you really need to get some rest. I don’t want to sound like a doctor -,”

“Too late,” Sherlock’s deep baritone interrupted. John ignored him.

“- but it’s too soon to be doing any riding. The medication will help, too. I have the feeling you don’t like being told what to do, but this is coming from a place of caring. You need to trust the doctors, and us. Please.”

“Thank you, John. Thank you very, very much. It’s such a pleasure to have wonderful people like you in my life,” she said, returning her eyes to Sherlock. John had the feeling he was being kindly dismissed. He placed his hand upon Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, then left the room. It was not until he was halfway down the corridor that he realized that Cleery had very cleverly avoided agreeing to anything he had told her.

 _That’s a lot like Sherlock,_ he smiled to himself and shook his head. _Just like Sherlock._

###

Over the next few days, Cleery’s room took on an air of reverence. The doctors would coast in, do a quick check, and quickly leave as they knew their presence was not cared for. They were the dictators, the unbending rulers that demanded what the patient was not ready to concede. The nurses, however, doted on the girl, mothering her, bringing her extra of whatever food she desired (certainly not Jell-O, they soon found out), and whispering kind words of how lovely Cleery was, and would she like another pillow? But they were aware, as John was, of the blossoming love that was growing between Cleery and her ever present bedside detective. It was Sherlock they would hand the food trays to, Sherlock who read to her, Sherlock that refreshed her water, Sherlock that supervised her medication. It was Sherlock that dictated that Cleery be moved to the west side of the hospital, as she enjoyed the twilight rather than the dawn coming through her windows.

It was unfathomable that anyone ask Sherlock to leave. A reclining chair was brought into the room for him, one which barely fit his lanky frame. John would bring in fresh clothes for his friend, who accepted them each time with a look of humble appreciation in his eyes. John missed his talks with Cleery, but knew that this was the time her body needed to heal. And the presence of Sherlock afforded her a comfort that he could not provide.

The infection in her chest persisted for over a week, Cleery’s deep cough racking her body and fracturing her tender ribs again. It was also during this time that the doctor discovered she had not been wearing a soft splint on her right wrist as she had been told to when she was in the hospital previously. John was in the room when the doctor admonished Cleery, waving the split at her. Sherlock simply held up his hand for the splint and affixed it on Cleery’s upheld arm, an embarrassed smile on her face as he did so.

John took this time to update the blog, as he was several cases behind, and pick up some shifts at the clinic. It was certainly a quiet 221B Baker Street without Sherlock. And John wondered what would be. He had never seen Sherlock so taken with a woman. Certainly, Sherlock could have his fair share of any maids in the London with his fame, but never took an interest. It had often crossed his mind to wonder if Sherlock was gay, which was certainly alright with John. But seeing him now, seeing this side of the man who had detested any kind of emotion, John had no doubt. Sherlock was in love. And Cleery in love with him.

It was one of these quiet afternoons that John received a text from Sherlock to come to the hospital. John flew out of the Baker Street flat with his heart in his throat and threw himself into a cab. He arrived at Cleery’s room, face red from running. Sherlock and Cleery looked up in surprise as he burst into the room.

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” he panted.

“John, nothing is _wrong_ ,” Sherlock reassured him. “We are actually celebrating the fact that Cleery will be going home tomorrow.” Sherlock offered him a plastic hospital cup with brown liquid in it.

“We wanted you to celebrate with us,” Cleery said. Indeed, she was sitting up straight in bed, her eyes bright with wellness, not fever. One of the nurses had helped her brush her long hair, and it slung over one shoulder like a golden cape. She was practically glowing.

John bent over, hands on his knees. “Sherlock, oh my God. You had me scared –,” he glanced at the couple, smiling and shaking his head. He accepted the cup from Sherlock and raised it.

“Here’s to Cleery!”  
“To Cleery!”  
“To me!”

John took a careful sniff of the substance as Sherlock and Cleery smacked their lips in unison after drinking the beverage and laughed.

“Go ahead, John. It’s a nod to the American in me – Kentucky whiskey bourbon,” Cleery encouraged him. John shot it down, choking on the unfamiliar flavor. Next time, slower, Cleery advised him. It was then that Sherlock pulled a wrapped gift from under Cleery’s bed and sat it on her lap.

“For me?” Cleery clapped her hands like a delighted child. Sherlock nodded, a wide grin crinkling his face. She tore off the wrapping and held up the box for John to see. It was a model building kit. Of a ship.

It would be very hard for John to describe Cleery’s face if he had chosen to write about it in his blog. First it was blank with confusion, then shocked, then her mouth twisted a bit. There was a long moment of silence where she simply was holding the box, and John could see Sherlock’s frame grow very rigid. Sherlock was panicking. Sherlock had told John of the way Cleery had described herself once – of a ship that had been desecrated. And now she held a ship in her hands to build. To build herself.

To rebuild herself.

Cleery slowly placed the ship back down on her lap and lay back in the pillow, chin now raised to the ceiling, eyes wide.

And the tears began to fall.

Cleery snuffed and wiped her nose in an effort to control her emotions, but now there was no holding back.

“I – ah,” Sherlock was befuddled and shot a desperate look at John.

“Oh, Sh-sherlock,” Cleery turned to him and grasped his face in her hands. Her face was wet with tears and blotchy with emotion. John grasped his friends shoulder and told him that he had done good. He felt Sherlock’s muscles relax under his grip and John gave him a nudge, hug her, you fool. The lovers embraced, Cleery sobbing but reassuring Sherlock that she was okay, it was the perfect gift, and Sherlock smiling ear to ear in relief.

John walked over to the other side of the bed where the bottle of bourbon was perched on a table and refilled his cup. He rolled the liquid in his mouth as he had seen them do, and swallowed with lip-smacking alacrity. Not bad, not bad at all.

Cleery grabbed John by the arm and pulled him into the embrace.

“Oof,” he uttered in surprise.

“Th-thank you, John. You are the b-best support system. I know you were always there. And that m-means so much,” Cleery managed to say between sobs. John felt Sherlock’s head nod in agreement.

“You are most welcome. Both of you. Now,” John straightened himself up, blinking back tears himself. “Just because you are going home doesn’t mean you go off this doctor’s care. I’ll be coming by your house tomorrow to make sure. Same routine. Lots of rest, stay on your meds. Right?”

John didn’t miss the panicked look Cleery shot Sherlock, who returned it with a gentle shake of his head. John chose to ignore it and stayed for a bit longer, enjoying as always, a conversation with the young woman, while Sherlock took a shower and changed. It was early evening when John kissed Cleery on the cheek and wished her goodnight.

“That’s mine,” joked Sherlock, rubbing a towel through his hair. “Get your own girlfriend!”

 _Girlfriend!_ thought John.

“Well, seems I’m a bit between these days,” shrugged John with a smile. “Too busy taking care of you two. Good night, Cleery. See you tomorrow.”

Sherlock followed John out into the hallway. John knew in an instant there was something on his friend’s mind. The detective slumped against the wall and ran a hand through his still-damp curls.

“Sherlock, when is the last time you had some rest? Or a decent meal?”

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “I don’t need that, John, you know that. This is something different.”

“You have been worried. It’s a different kind of tired. You took responsibility for her well-being. It’s exhausting.”

Sherlock dropped his chin to his chest. “John, I was so blind. I failed her.”

“What?”

“That day I saw her in the park, she was coughing. The night I went over there, she was coughing. She had a fever. I was totally blind to it. Stupid, stupid. It was right there, and I didn’t even see it. John, I can’t even take care of myself. And I can’t take care of her.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Do you even see what you have done here, these past days? You did not leave her side. You may not realize it, but you took care of her. And when a person feels that, its – well, it’s the best feeling in the world. Cleery is better now because of you, and she’s going to continue to get better, physically and mentally. And let me tell you, that girl is not shrinking violet. You’ve got your hands full.” At this, Sherlock grinned ruefully and nodded.

“I did all right, then?” Sherlock brought his eyes to meet John’s.

“Yes, you did just great,” John said. _“But.”_

“Ah, the ‘but’”.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why Cleery didn’t take the pain medication at home? Oh, wait. Oh, my God. Sherlock.” John’s stomach twisted at the sudden realization.

“John, she doesn’t take the pain killers…because, well. You see,” Sherlock looked away and swallowed nervously.

“She’s an addict,” John finished.

“She was an addict,” Sherlock corrected him, finally meeting John’s eyes.

“Once an addict, always one, you know that,” John admonished him. “So, this is why you took charge at the hospital. You made sure she didn’t take any.”

“She didn’t want to take any. She’s strong. She doesn’t even need any. She needed my help to run interference, as she said. It – it wasn’t my only purpose here,” Sherlock pouted.

“No, I know that. But why didn’t she tell her doctors? There could have been alternatives. We could have all helped her in some other way.”

“No. If anyone found out, that would have been the end of her career. No Olympics. No one must know, John. No one.”

“That’s fine, Sherlock. I have no one to tell. I…I don’t know what to think right now, honestly. What happened?”

“It was years ago, during an equestrian event. It was the cross-country segment, and the horse tripped and fell and she got caught underneath. Hurt her back badly. Cleery just began to abuse the prescriptions. She was in that big house, practically alone. She was able to hide it for over a year. But Henry, the groom, found out. That’s when she started living with him. He watched her every minute of every day and helped her get off the painkillers. Now she says he’s overprotective, feels like he has to watch her all the time.”

John ran his hands through his graying hair, ruefully thinking how the two of them had just given him a few more. “Sherlock, you’re an addict.”

Sherlock raised in chin – so much like Cleery, God they are becoming the same person – “I haven’t used in over a year.”

“All right. Yeah. Let me absorb all this. For now, go back in there, curl up on that horrible chair, and get some rest. I’ll be over to her house in the late morning to check in.”

“Thank you, John.”

“You are welcome. See you tomorrow,” John paused for half a second, but Sherlock had already turned and gone back into the room.

###

Cleery’s return home was a joyous affair. Sherlock, proud as a mother peacock, helped the guest of honor walk into her house on his arm. Trudy, Roland, John, James from the Olympic team, and even Dorothy at the last moment were all on hand. Cleery insisted on walking through the barn to greet all her four-legged friends, where Henry came out to begrudgingly meet her but then promptly returned to his upstairs apartment, then everyone met in the great room for tea and sandwiches.

“Trudy, you truly make the most outstanding biscuits I have ever tasted,” gushed John. Sherlock, his mouth too full of said biscuits to talk, nodded in agreement.

“Oh, my pleasure. Old family recipe. I understand your Mrs. Watson is quite a cook as well?”

“Yes, she does tend to keep us fed. Thank goodness, or there would be take-away every night.”

“John,” asked Sherlock. “Did you bring it?”

“Right here,” his friend handed over the violin case he had tucked behind a table. At the sight of it, Cleery, sitting on one of the couches, clapped her hands to her mouth.

“I’ve never heard you play,” she whispered. “Finally.” Sherlock grinned and winked at her, making a show of tuning his violin, lips pursed in concentration. He then began a slow ballad that John had never heard him play before. Cleery clearly knew it, as she shook her head slowly in awe.

“Sing it, Cleery. I know you know the words,” Sherlock encouraged. “I’ve seen your old records. All those old American classics and how often you’ve played them. Come on now, don’t make me reveal all my secrets.”

“Oh!” she looked around the room, suddenly shy, but with a deep breath and a look of her old resolve, she sang. Not every note was perfect, but she sang the old song by The Paris Sisters, strong and sweet:

 _I love how your eyes close,_  
_Whenever you kiss me._  
_And when I'm away from you,_  
_I love how you miss me,_  
_I love the way you always treat me… tenderly…_  
_But, darling, most of all,_  
_I love how you love me._

The room broke out in applause as Sherlock and bowed to Cleery as she mouthed “thank you” to him.

“Very sweet,” Dorothy came up to stand beside John. “I really cannot thank you two enough for all you’ve done for our little family.”

“It was really just Sherlock, honestly. He has…really opened up. They seem to be quite good for each other.”

One by one, the guests departed. Cleery was tired, but still the fighter and determined to see each person to the door. Sherlock offered her his elbow after the last guest left and brought her upstairs. Sherlock was still using the Aston Martin, and was John’s ride home. John glanced at his watch several times, noting it was beginning to get late and it was apparent that Dorothy was ready to retire as well. John went to the top of the stairs and knocked gently on Cleery’s closed door.

“Eh, Sherlock? Don’t mean to interrupt,” the door swung open slightly. Cleery was in bed, her bedside light still on, book on her lap, fast asleep. And there was Sherlock beside her, on top of the covers, on his stomach. Mouth agape, limbs relaxed, deep in sleep. Finally.

John shut off Cleery’s light and removed the book from her lap. He crept downstairs, recovered the keys from Sherlock’s coat, and took great pleasure in driving himself home.


	9. CHAPTER NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock screws up big time. 
> 
> Warning: an addict takes a fall in this chapter.

Life fell into a pleasing rhythm. John and Sherlock continued their business as 221B Baker Street, taking in clients and cases. Sherlock continued to be his frustratingly short-tempered, rude, intolerant self to those that sat in the third chair in their flat, as always. But now there was a light behind his eyes, a bit more of a spring to his step, more of a purpose. Maybe once or twice a day there would be an exchange of texts between him and Cleery, and John would see Sherlock’s face crinkle into a wide grin at the receipt of them.

 Sherlock and Cleery would often go for about four or five days without seeing each other, as Cleery was busy with classes and physical therapy. But then John would wake one morning, look out the window, and see that the Aston Martin was gone. This meant Sherlock would be away for two or three days, visiting her. 

 “So, and I mean to ask you in the nicest way, what do you and Sherlock do when he comes to visit?” John and Cleery were having their weekly lunch when he asked this. Cleery glanced up at him and wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

 “Really, not much,” she shrugged. “Walks around the estate, dinners by the fire, talks long into the night. Sherlock may read, or play violin, or work on a case while I do some school work. It’s pretty quiet.”

 “Is it love?”

 “I think it could get there. We haven’t said the words, you know. I think we are so, ah, practical. God, that sounds awful!”

 “Cleery, are you intimate?”

 “John!” Cleery feigned embarrassment, laughing, but a pleasing pink crept into her cheeks.

 “I’m asking as your doctor, and your friend. And your quasi-therapist.”

 “Oh, in that case! Well, now that you mention it, there’s a fair bit of snogging, a little touching…. I don’t think either one of us is ready for more than that. Do you…think that’s okay? It’s very nice. Sherlock’s…very tender,” her fair pink was becoming a bit more crimson.

 “I’m really not in the position to tell you if it’s okay or not, Cleery. But if you’re comfortable, and not feeling any pressure to do anything you are not ready for. Just take things easy, yeah.”

 “Yeah, John. You’re the only one I can talk to about this,” she paused, pushing the food around on her plate. “I just worry that Sherlock needs me…. more than I need him. He is the most amazing person. You don’t need me to tell me that. But he gives so much more to me than I can to him. I feel like our relationship is a bit one-sided. I don’t want him to feel that. I worry.”

 John reached his hand over the table to grasp hers.

 “You are giving Sherlock so much, Cleery. Don’t worry. I think you two have very open lines of communication. Use them. Talk to him about this. But from what I can see, he is very, very happy.”

 Cleery blew out her cheeks. “You’re right. Thank you. I’ll talk to him.”

 “Would you like to come to the flat? I think he’s there if you want to say hello.”

 A quick look of panic crossed Cleery’s face and she knocked over her glass of water as she pulled her hand away from John.

 “Oh, geez, ah, so sorry,” she muttered as her and John soaked up the spilled water with napkins. “No, ah, no John.”

 “You’ve never been to 221B. Why?”

 “There’s a chair, there, right? Where the clients sit?”

 John nodded, intently watching as Cleery’s chin lifted, her eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t ever want you or Sherlock to think about me in that way. I’m not a client. I’m – I’m not a victim. You solve cases there. I’m not a case to solve. I’m not someone to feel sorry for.”  

 “My apologies, Cleery, I didn’t realize. I hope I have never made you feel that way.”

 “No, it’s quite all right, John. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come at you that way,” she smiled gently at him. “Is this where you give me the speech about seeing an actual therapist?”

 John returned the smile and pulled out his wallet. “I’ll let it go this week, since you seem to have seen it coming. Come on, show me what car you drove here today.”

 Cleery lay down her portion of the bill – ‘always Dutch, John, don’t insult me’ and her face lit up. “Today it’s the Impala! Come see!” Cleery grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the café to a vehicle that John initially mistook for a limousine. It was really a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, black, and the length of it took up three parking space lengths along the street. Two parking tickets were tucked under the windshield wipers.

 Cleery swore a string of obscenities that made John’s toes curl. “Just because I drive a car that’s over five meters long doesn’t mean I should pay for three parking spaces,” she feigned anger. “See you next week, John?”

 “Wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, accepting her enthusiastic hug. “Be good.”

 “Always!” she laughed, waving good bye. He watched as she carefully maneuvered the car out of the (three) parking spaces and down the street. He zipped up his coat against the raw day and began to walk towards the nearest market. Milk, he thought. We are always out of milk.  He lingered, purchasing a few more things, then began a leisurely walk back to Baker Street. It wasn’t long before he noticed another black car, much smaller, following him along the street.

 “Jesus,” John muttered, trying to ignore the car. It finally pulled into his path when he tried to cross the street. The window rolled down, revealing Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft.

 “Do get in, John. This little game of cat and mouse is at best, tedious.”

 John relinquished and entered the car. “Thought you were away on a mission.”

 “I was. Now I’m back.” The car pulled away from the curb.

 “Great.”

 “How is my little brother,” Mycroft occupied himself with his cufflinks.

 “You could always stop by and ask him yourself,” John replied. Mycroft gave him a withering gaze. “Oh, right, that would involve social skills. Well, I’m sure you already know, but he’s doing quite well. Has a nice girlfriend. I just had lunch with her. But, I’m sure you already know. She’s an Olympic hopeful and lives -,”

 “Yes, yes, I already know. So, you would say Sherlock is in a relationship,” Mycroft’s upper lip curled at the word.

 “Very much so. You should meet her. Ah, but that would also involve social skills.”

 “Has her case been solved.”

 John sighed. Mycroft’s tone of statements that were really questions to which he already knew the answers to were incredibly tedious.

 “No, I don’t believe it has. Sherlock has removed himself from the case.”

 “I have put him back on it.”

 “Why?” John felt a prick of fear in his stomach.

 “John.”

 “Is Cleery in danger?”

 “I thought it would be best if you knew. You may go now.”

 “Mycroft, why are you telling me this? Where is Sherlock?”

 “I believe he is, as I said, back on the case.”

 “Is he over at Cleery’s?”

 “Thank you, John. That will be all.”

 John was all too happy to leave the car, which had deposited him back at the café. Dropping his groceries, he swore and ran to Baker Street. The Aston Martin was gone and sure enough, the flat was empty. He called Sherlock, who did not pick up. He swore, rang him again, then again.

Mycroft had made damn sure that Sherlock had a good lead time. John paced the flat, tearing his fingers through his hair. Go to Cleery, or stay here for Sherlock?  He texted:

  _Cleery?_

_You okay?_

_I’m coming over_

 No answer. John continued to pace in an attempt to burn off his feelings on anger and confusion. What was Sherlock doing? Five long minutes, his phone buzzed with a reply that left his heart cold.

  _STAY AWAY_

 “Oh, nonono,” John muttered as he ran outside and hailed a cab. “You are NOT doing that to me, Cleery. You are not pulling a Sherlock ostrich-head-in-the-sand move. Here I come.”

 

###

 

_Tonight, you're mine, completely…_  
_You give your love so sweetly._  
_Tonight the light of love is in your eyes,_  
_But will you love me tomorrow?_

 Before John even entered the Cleery’s mansion, he could hear the deep beat of the music. Trudy opened the door before he could even knock, panic in her eyes. The Shirelles’ 1960’s hit continued, its saccharine lyrics insisting:

  _Is this a lasting treasure…_  
_Or just a moment's pleasure._  
_Can I believe the magic of your sighs,_  
_Will you still love me tomorrow?_

 Trudy had to shout in his ear to be heard over the swelling violins in the overture.

 “She won’t answer her door. It’s locked. She’s had that music blaring since Sherlock left. Oh, Mr. Watson!”

 John nodded in reply and patted Trudy’s arm reassuringly. He jogged up the stairs and pounded on Cleery’s door.

  _Tonight, with words unspoken,_  
_You say that I'm the only one,_  
_But will my heart be broken…._

 “Cleery! It’s John! OPEN THIS DOOR!”

  _When the night meets the morning sun?_

 _I'd like to know that your love,_  
_Is love I can be sure of…_  
_So tell me now and I won't ask again,_  
_Will you still love me tomorrow?_  
_Will you still love me tomorrow?_

 The song ended, but before John could take a breath, it started again.

  _Tonight, you’re mine, completely…._

_You give your love, so sweetly._

 John backed up three paces and pounded his shoulder into the door.

 “Uff!”

 It held solid. Roland, Trudy’s husband, came bounding up the stairs. “Came as soon as I could -,” he roared, and without stopping, propelled himself into the door which mercifully slammed open.

 “Cleery!”

 John and Roland stormed the room, searching for the girl. She was nowhere to be found, and the door to her balcony was open. John noted Cleery could have easily climbed down using the vines that twisted up the side of the mansion. Then what he found in the bathroom made his heart stop.

 Open bottles of pills and a half-filled glass of water next to the sink.

 “She’s not ‘ere,” Roland confirmed, switching the music off.

 “Where?” John asked, a tight band of fear circling his chest. “Where else would she be?”

Without a word, they both raced to the stable, where they could hear Henry pounding on the inside of the door that lead to the upstairs. The door had been blocked with a tilted chair under the doorknob. “She locked me in - she’s took Winchester out – about an hour ago.”

 “She took some pills, Henry. I don’t know how many,” John gasped, his hands on his knees. “We’ve got to find her.”

 The men ran outside at the sound of horse hoofs pounding towards them. Cleery turned the corner on the stallion, full bore, her lips pulled back in a manic grin. She pulled the stallion up right before the men, the horse’s chest heaving and frothy with sweat. The girl gracefully dismounted and threw the reins at Henry and her riding helmet on the ground.

 “Take care of him, Henry. Roland, you are dismissed,” her eyes were cold and steely as they lit upon John. “And I told you to stay away.” She walked into the barn.

 John was amazed at the change in the men in her presence. Henry gathered up the reins, head down, and walked off with the horse, whose head also dropped in exhaustion. Roland shoved his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and turned back to the house.

 John followed her back in to the shadows of the barn. She sat on a bench against one of the stalls and began removing her riding boots. John leaned against the opposite wall, watching her shaking hands as she attempted to loosen the laces.

 Cleery sat up and glared at John. “You going to stand there or just help me?” she growled. Her blonde hair was a tangle around her head and her crisp white shirt was matted with sweat and misbuttoned under her leather jacket.

 “Do you need my help?” John asked quietly.

 Cleery stood quickly and strode over to John, ripping his jacket off his shoulders and pinning his arms in it, against the wall. She kissed him forcefully, bracing her legs at such an angle that is was impossible for the surprised John to get leverage to push her away. Her teeth grated on his with force, her tongue seeking to open his mouth. For half a horrible instant, he found himself responding to her kiss, mouth opening, but he tore his head to the side.

 Cleery hissed in his ear. “You are so much more of a man than Sherlock is, John. You would have taken me to bed. You would have done things -,”

 “Enough!” John planted one of his feet flat against the wall behind him and pushed her away. “You’re high as a kite right now, so don’t say anything I know you’ll regret later.”

 “He never _had_ me. Never gave me what I wanted. Like he was _afraid_ ,” she mocked.

 “That’s enough!”

 “What wrong, John, did you want him for yourself? Forget him, take me!”

 “Tell me what you took, Cleery,” it took all of John’s self-control not to slap her.

 She stumbled backwards, twisting her arms out of John’s grip. “A whole rainbow, Dr. Watson. I’ll let you figure it out. I’ll tell you, it feels outstanding. In fact,” she pulled a prescription bottle from the pocket of her leather jacket, opened it, and poured several pills into her mouth. John rushed to her, squeezing her cheeks between his thumb and index to prevent her from swallowing. They struggled, falling to the rough pavement of the stable. Cleery kicked and shoved John, but he held one hand on her face, the other on the collar of her leather jacket. The pills spilled out of her mouth and she screamed at him, eyes wild. John managed to finally settle her below him, holding her shoulders down. Cleery panted, glaring up at him.

 “I hate you. All your righteousness. You don’t save people. I live with what happened to me. Every. Single. Day. You think you could show me love? I hate you _, I hate you!”_

 John knew she was talking to the invisible presence of Sherlock.

 “I know, Cleery. Believe me, we all have our demons. But if you think you hate me now, you are really going to hate me after this,” and with that, John grabbed Cleery by one shoulder and twisted her onto her side and plunged a finger down her throat. She struggled viciously, but once she began to vomit, her body relaxed and her head hung low. She coughed and spit and John helped her sit up, her now limp form leaning against him on the cold floor.

 “I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for everything,” he whispered into her hair. John felt emotions begin to choke his voice.  “I’m sorry for the way Sherlock treated you. I could make excuses for him, but I won’t. He’s a real bastard sometimes. Come on, let’s get you to the house.” He helped her up and together they trudged slowly to the mansion and up the stairs to her room. John propped her up in her bed and placed a bucket next to her bed should she vomit again. He carefully inventoried her prescriptions, counting what was left of each pill and compiling a list. Luckily, the vomiting should have done the trick and she was in no need of medical attention. Cleery was now sleeping, and though her pulse was jumpy, it was beginning to calm into a regular rhythm. The effects of whatever drugs were left in her system were beginning to wear off. He rinsed a flannel from the bathroom in warm water and washed Cleery’s face clear of residual vomit and dirt.

 John pulled a chair close to her bedside and watched her sleep. Even in her unconscious state, there was a deep furrow between her eyebrows. Her lashes lay down soft shadows beneath her eyes and the sides of her ski-jump nose. Cleery’s lips were slightly parted, her lips a bit swollen, her breath coming slow and relaxed.

 It’s no wonder Sherlock fell for her. She’s quite beautiful. Something twisted in John’s stomach – the bitter smack of shame. They had kissed, and now here he was, leaning forward, studying her striking features. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head. It was now late afternoon, and the day had been a long one. There was a gentle knock on the door and Trudy let herself in.

 “How is she?” Trudy asked, her eyes on Cleery. She placed a tray of tea and biscuits on the table next to John.

 “Thank you. I wish I could say she was going to be okay, but, well. I just can’t. Trudy, what happened when Sherlock came here?”

 Trudy wrung her hands, her eyes finally glancing to John but then back to Cleery again. “As always, she was so happy to see him. He was here when she got back from lunch. But he didn’t smile. He said they needed to talk. They went into the grand room, and the shouting started. Sherlock insisted that Cleery had not told him everything that she knew. He kept telling her to tell him, he backed her into a corner, and well, you don’t do that to Cleery. She punched him.”

 “She – did what?”

 “Yes, a real knocker. Sherlock was quite shocked! She went up to her room and locked it and Sherlock stayed for a while, talking to her through the door, apologizing. He really was, quite literally, on his knees, begging for her forgiveness. But then she started the music and he left. I don’t know where he went.”

 John shook his head. “I don’t know, either. Right now, I don’t care.”

 “Will you stay for a while, Mr. Watson? I can bring you up something to eat if you’re hungry.”

 “Yes, I’ll stay, Trudy. The tea is fine for now, thank you.”

 “Oh, thank you, Mr. Watson. I’ll check and see if you need anything in a little while.”

 Once Trudy left, John picked up his phone and called in a favor.

 "Molly, I need you.”

 


	10. CHAPTER TEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock got physically hit in the last chapter....now that emotional punch takes its toll.

 Lestrade was waiting at 221B Baker Street when Sherlock returned.

 “Got those files you wanted,” he offered.

 “Obviously.” Sherlock marched past Greg, his collar high up and his head down.

 “Is John ‘ere?” Greg asked.

 “No.” This was a different Sherlock than he had been seeing in the past few weeks. This one was back to being sullen and rude.

 “So…where is he, then?”

 “I seem to possess the unique capacity to solve many cases without an iota of Dr. Watson’s assistance!” Sherlock snapped, finally looking at Greg. Greg could not help but notice that Sherlock’s eyes were red-rimmed and his face flushed, as if he had been crying.

  _As if Sherlock had been crying._

 Greg’s mouth dropped open.

 Sherlock stormed towards him and snatched the files from Lestrade’s limp hands. Sherlock muttered as he lay the files out on his desk, his eyes quickly dissecting the information. Sherlock kept his head down, curls hiding his face.

 “You can go!”

 “Eh, well, thought you might have some questions. Or, eh, may not want to look at all this…. yourself,” Greg said, furtively looking out the open door behind him, wishing John would appear. “Some of it may be hard to look at.”

 “Why would you say that?” Indeed, Sherlock had dumped out an envelope of enlarged photos, ranging from Denobar’s desecrated corpse, Cleery’s torn shirt, the mattress she was found on, and pictures of her bruises, coldly posed for the camera.

 “I thought you were dating Ms. O’Donnell,” Greg ran a futile hand through his hair. “Thought this would be, you know, hard, Sherlock.”

 “Apparently, that’s no longer the case.”

 “Eh, right. Well sorry to hear that.”

 “Don’t be, Lestrade. It’s not like anyone died.”

 Greg shook his head to fight the feeling that he had just been physically slapped and turned to leave. It was apparent he was not wanted at 221B.


	11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleery finds a much-needed friend, and Sherlock returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Clonidine. Used to treat alcohol and opiate withdrawals, Clonidine reduces sweating, cramps, muscle aches and anxiety. Clonidine can also stop tremors and seizures.

 A few hours later, Molly arrived, her eyes wide at the sight of the extravagant mansion.

 “I – I think I have everything you asked for, John.” She pulled out a few bags of saline IV drip, a bottle of Clonidine*, some needles, cotton, and alcohol swabs.

 “Thank you, Molly. While you’re here, can you help me?” he began to gently pull Cleery’s leather jacket from her shoulders. Cleery moaned but did not wake up.

Molly stood, transfixed. “Is this, um, you know-,” she stuttered.

John fixed his eyes on Molly. “Yes, Molly, it is – or, most likely, was – Sherlock’s girlfriend. And right now, she needs our help. Come on.”

 Molly nodded stiffly and helped John undress Cleery and place her in a loose nightgown. It was apparent to her that the Clonidine she had brought was for this tortured girl. John hissed at the bruises that still mottled her ribcage. They tucked her under the covers and John started an IV for fluids.

 “I’ll get a flannel for her face,” Molly said.

 “Oh, I already did,” John told her as he adjusted the covers.

 “Well you did a terrible job, then,” Molly retorted from the bathroom. She came out, twisting a cloth in her hands and shaking her head at John. “Don’t send a man to do a woman’s job, then.” She sat next to Cleery on the bed, gently pushing back the girl’s hair and wiping her face. Cleery opened her blurry eyes at Molly.

“Hello,” Molly said shyly. “Don’t worry, John’s right here. I’m just a friend of his and Sherlock’s – oh, I mean,” Molly blushed. Cleery licked her lips and asked for bourbon. Molly looked at John in confusion, who was watching with arms crossed.

 “None of that today, I’m afraid,” he said. He handed Molly a glass of water who held it up to Cleery’s lips. After drinking, Cleery rubbed her eyes and tried to push her tangled hair out of her face.

 “Here, I’ve got that,” Molly said, and ran to the bathroom to retrieve a brush and a hair band. She brushed out Cleery’s hair slowly, then tied it up in a ponytail at the base of Cleery’s neck. Cleery held out a weak hand.

 “Cleery.”

 “Molly,” she said, shaking Cleery’s hand.

“Molly, will you play me some music?”

“Well, of course. Where?”

 Cleery pointed to the ancient record player on a deep shelf across the room. “Anything there.” Cleery talked Molly through which knob to turn and how to set the needle down gently on the spinning vinyl. Molly came to sit down on the bed next to Cleery as the soulful voices of the 4 Tops warmed the room:

  _Baby, I need your lovin'…_  
_Although you're never near…_  
_Your voice I often hear._  
_Another day, 'nother night,_  
_I long to hold you tight,_  
_'Cause I'm so lonely…_

 _Baby, I need your lovin'…_  
_Got to have all your lovin'…_  
_Baby I need your lovin'…_  
_Got to have all you lovin'…_

 _Some say it's a sign of weakness…_  
_For a man to beg,_  
_Then weak I'd rather be,_  
_If it means having you to keep,_  
_'Cause lately I've been losing sleep…_

 _Baby, I need your lovin'…_  
_Got to have all your lovin'…_  
_Baby I need your lovin'…_  
_Got to have all you lovin'…_

 _Lonely nights echo your name…_  
_Oh, sometimes I wonder,_  
_Will I ever be the same?_

 By the end of the song, Cleery was in Molly arms, weeping.

 “It’s okay, Cleery. I know exactly how you feel,” Molly said, stroking Cleery’s hair. “I think we are going to be great friends.”

 

###

 

Time is the slowest, but purest, of healers. Cold winds may blow but soft summer ones follow. Tears dry. One’s heart, so heavy, will gradually lighten, beat again slowly, and nerves will calm. Thoughts, once bunkered and unmoving, will find new avenues of relief, and one day a person awakens with their soul a bit more pieced together. It happens. Slowly, but it happens.

 

###

 

Turns out Molly was just what the doctor ordered.

 That first evening they met, John had left the room after seeing the two young women embrace. And their friendship blossomed from there. Molly would come by after work a day here and there, but then John found out she took advantage of her carefully hoarded vacation days and spent them with Cleery. They didn’t leave the estate – sometimes, they didn’t even leave Cleery’s room, but have Trudy deliver hordes of treats while they watched hours of movies or had dance parties, playing rousing music well into the night. John, visiting them one day, found both girls with extravagant piles of curlers in their hair and mud masks on their faces. They burst into hysterical giggles when they caught the look of John’s surprised expression, grabbing each other’s hands and running into the bathroom to hide. And finally, Cleery began to see a therapist, an excellent one that traveled to visit Cleery at her home.

 All this time, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. It took a few days for John to text him, as initially the mere thought of it made him heady with anger. Finally,

  _Where are you._

It took Sherlock two days to text back.

  _America._

 _Jesus Christ_ , thought John. He could only wager a guess if Sherlock’s location had anything to do with Cleery’s distant American relations. He didn’t care.

John pulled the circle around Cleery tighter. Molly, Henry, Trudy, Roland and himself all took turns monitoring her and made sure there was no clandestine drug use occurring. James, her friend from the Olympic team, also made frequent visits and they would ride together. Slowly Cleery began training again with James, her sallow cheeks taking on a more robust color and her head held straighter. Two months passed.

 Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

 During one such session John and Molly watched Cleery in the indoor arena at the estate, guiding Winchester through the carefully ballet of equestrian dressage. This is where Cleery excelled. The careful communication of horse and rider in perfect form, working as one, the only sound the soft huffing of the stallion and his amazingly nimble footsteps through the choreographed routine. After they finished, Molly rushed to her side, gripping Cleery’s leg and looking up at her, still on horseback.

 “Cleery, you are breathtaking,” Molly gushed.

 “Molly, thank you! Hello John!”

 “Hello, Cleery. That is quite amazing to watch,” he said.

 “Olympic trials in four months. Still a long way to go,” said James, coming up to them with a smile. “But that was the best one yet.”

 Cleery grinned at them all, then glanced up at the entrance to the arena. The doors were quite large, sliding and large enough to accommodate a horse trailer and other equipment inside the arena. They were slid open a bit today, about ten feet wide, to allow some of the fresh, cool air inside.

 There stood a figure, silhouetted against the sun, in this opening. A distinct figure in a Belstaff coat and deerstalking hat.

 “Oh, my God,” John sputtered.

Cleery spun Winchester back on his hocks and galloped the stallion up to Sherlock, who did not move. They could see Cleery gazing down at the man while turning the horse around and back at him, the fire from the exchange felt by the strong stallion. Still, no words were said for several minutes. Finally, Cleery bent down to Sherlock’s level and began speaking to him. John and the others were not able to hear what she was saying, but her black riding gloved finger was pointed in his face and her body was tense.

 Molly’s hand crept into John’s with fear.

 “Should we -,” she began.

 “Let’s just wait,” John whispered.

 “I want to punch him,” James added. Molly and John nodded in agreement. They watched as Cleery gracefully jumped down from Winchester, and with his reins held in one hand, she pushed Sherlock outside with the other, poking at his chest, out of their view.

 “Okay, I think we need to monitor this,” John said. When they reached the door and John saw what had occurred, he had to smile. Cleery was standing above Sherlock who was now sitting on the ground, rubbing his jaw. His hat had fallen off and on the ground beside him. Cleery was shaking her hand out from the punch. Winchester, whose reins were still in one hand, was watching with profound interest, ears pricked.

 James slowly walked forward and took the horse’s reins from Cleery’s grasp. John glanced at her, and although she was panting with anger her eyes sparked, there appeared to be a look of complete contentment on the girl’s face.

 “I deserved that,” Sherlock said, then held a hand up to John. John stared at him, arms crossed.

“I deserved that, too,” the detective acknowledged, getting himself off the ground. “Molly, good to see you.” But she only gave him a withering stare. Sherlock brushed himself off, looking at the four - five, including the very interested horse – beings now looking at him.

 Sherlock’s face was unshaven and his eyes were sunken deep in his skull. His pronounced cheekbones looked like akimbo elbows on his face. Unkempt curls sprung from his head. Even his usual pristine white shirt was gray with spots of food down the chest and streaks of blood on the collar. His eyes were on the ground.

 “I’m sure I…that is, well,” Sherlock held up his arms for a moment, then let them drop by his sides in sad resolution. His eyes darted up to Cleery tentatively, then to each of the other, then back to Cleery.

 “Do you think there could be some place where we could talk?” Sherlock asked quietly.

 Cleery gave a quick nod and offered the horse’s reins to James.

 “Are you going to be all right, Cleery?” James asked.

 “Thank you, yes,” she replied, and swept her arm towards the garden. “Right this way, Mr. Holmes.”

 


	12. CHAPTER TWELVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot in this chapter...take your time and enjoy!

It wasn’t as if Sherlock had expected them all to be there. He was hoping to find Cleery by herself, perhaps coax her to have a cup of tea together, and everything would be back to normal. But seeing John, Molly and James together with her had been a bit of a shock. Since when was she friends with Molly? James – it was obvious that boy had a crush on his girlfriend. John, his eyes were shifting, guilty of something, did he have feelings for Cleery, too? Cleery was _his_ to tend, _his_ to take care of.

  _She must know I have done this all for her. She must._

 Seeing them all was off-putting, but nothing Sherlock could not handle. They were all familiar as long-held lab rats. But when Cleery came to him, up on that horse, there was something new about her.

  _Formidable, s_ prang to his mind.

 Since emotions were so difficult for him to define, and the sight of her gave him a dizzy feeling, it didn’t take much for Cleery to charge him unguarded and send a fist, once again, into his jaw.

 Now she was in a dead march to the garden. She was still wearing her black hard hat and Sherlock could see the sweat begin to come down from her neck underneath it. How he longed to cradle that neck, to look into her eyes. But now she had stopped, they were in the garden where they had their first true conversation that night so long ago, and he nearly ran into her. She turned and folded her arms.

 “Start talking.”

 Sherlock sat down in one of the chairs, and glanced at the one opposite from him, but Cleery had no intention of sitting. She was wearing a silken black blouse, black gloves, and gray jodhpurs with short black riding boots. The material of her pants clung to her like a glove, and it was all Sherlock could do not to sweep down her beautiful body with his eyes.

 “Could we…get some tea?”

 “No. You have five minutes. Then I’m going to have Roland cart your sorry ass off this property, Mr. Holmes. Start talking.”

 “Cleery,” Sherlock’s throat was dry. “I solved your case. I know who gave the order to kidnap you. And I know…that you know him.”

 Cleery blinked twice and her eyes widened. “You found my father.”

 Sherlock nodded wearily. “Yes, I found your father. It’s no surprise to you that he is still alive. My investigation took me to America, but he’s here, in this country. Lestrade is on his way to arrest him.”

 Cleery’s face fell and she dove to Sherlock on her knees. “No! Call Lestrade! Stop him! Please, please, Sherlock, don’t!” She grabbed his arm and shook it.

 “Cleery, the man is a criminal. A drug runner – no, a king pin. He ordered your attack!”

 “I know he didn’t mean for it to happen that way! Call right now, please!” Cleery kept her voice to an intense whisper, but Sherlock could see she was on the verge of hysterics. Cleery began grabbing his coat, tearing his cell phone out of one of his pockets. _“Pleeease!”_

“Why?” Sherlock was more than exhausted, but Cleery’s sudden closeness and intensity began to shake him to the core.

  _“He’s a secret agent,_ ” she hissed. “ _You will blow his cover_.” She tore her hard hat off and pushed the cell phone into his hand.

 “As I suspected. Don’t worry, Lestrade’s not on his way. Your father is perfectly safe.”

 Cleery fell back and sat on the ground, her eyes wide. Slowly her head elevated with her eyes on the sky, her hands on her shins. Sherlock saw her shoulders heaving, but then realized she was laughing. Sherlock sat back in his chair, uncertain. She wiped away tears.

 “Oh, my _stars_ , Mr. Holmes. You couldn’t get the answer you needed from Mycroft, so you fooled me into believing you were going to blow his cover. Yes, my father is a secret agent. Working for both the American and British governments. But he’s so deep that not even your brother could find him. There is apparently a lack of trust between the countries in this matter. Mycroft sent you to find him, letting you believe he was a full-blown _criminal_. Letting you believe that my father ordered that attack on me. Mycroft just needed you to find him, but he didn’t tell you why. He _used you_ , Mr. Holmes, to find his own agent. And then you fooled me.  Ahh, we are a pair, aren’t we?”

 “I didn’t-,”

 “How much of your so-called affection for me aided you in solving this case? Did you just want information, and just a little something on the side? So sorry it didn’t work out that way,” her voice dripping with deadly sarcasm. Her eyes narrowed, and slid over to look at him.

 “No, Cleery, its not like that! The last time I was here, I had just enough information to think that he was a criminal. I thought he had ordered that attack on you. I was rabid with the idea of your father doing that to you. I – was a fool. All this time.”

 Sherlock dropped on his knees beside her.

 “A stupid case that would have gotten solved on its own eventually. My brother wanted to find your father before the Americans did, and he used me. I see that now. Yes, another plume in my hat, so to speak, but at what risk. What damage.” He wearily ran his hand through his hair. “I am so sorry.”

 Sherlock’s hands lay in his lap, his head down.

 “You know what the funny thing is, Mr. Holmes?”

  _Please, please call me Sherlock._

 “I was _this close_ to finding him myself. I knew the Americans were keeping an eye on me, to see if we would contact each other. We have before. Messages on the inside of the bourbon labels. Oh, and my notes about the butcher shops? One of the drug rings my father was undermining from the inside. I just about knew where he was, so I would purposely not lead the Americans to him. Had someone not found out that I was – was s-so c-c-close -,” Cleery sat up straight.

 Sherlock raised his weary eyes to look at her. “No one knew about that notebook. Except you and the man that was watching your every move. The man that you were living with. Henry.”

 Cleery’s face paled. “Henry knew I was going out that morning and he knew where I was riding. He told them. Henry didn’t want me to find my father.”

 “Because he didn’t want to be found, miss,” Henry said behind them. Cleery and Sherlock scrambled to their feet. “He knew one government or the other would put you in danger. ‘e wanted you to do nothing with him. I was just followin’ your pa’s orders, miss. Told a messenger he sent what I found in your book. Your pa told me where to find it. But the wires got crossed. Probably my dumb fault. It was never supposed to happen like it did, miss. Was supposed to be a shake up, is all. Dumb blokes got carried away and knew you could identify ‘em, so they took you with ‘em and got carried away. I’m so, so sorry, Cleery.”

 Cleery stumbled back into Sherlock at the admission, and Sherlock caught her before she could fall. He felt the smooth texture of her silken blouse and her strong biceps flexing beneath. He caught the sweet smell of saddle soap and leather. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, drinking her in like a thirsty man in the desert.

 “Mr. Holmes,” Cleery shook off his grip and Sherlock blinked rapidly to come back to the present. “Henry, start packing. You are leaving, today. I won’t turn you in, because that will just lead the trail back to my father. I don’t – I don’t want you here. I can’t – I can’t look – I can’t look at you.” Her breath came in short gasps, her face now a scarlet red.

 “Cleery, you’re hyperventilating,” Sherlock eased her into a chair and dismissed Henry with a jerk of his head. He knelt in front of her, Cleery’s hands gripping his forearms. “Slow your breathing, take deep breathes, nice and easy,” he smiled at her, nodding gently. “Nice and slow, there you go. Let me talk to Mycroft. I’m sure he can find a nice horse farm far away for Henry to work at, if that’s what you’d like.”

 Cleery continued to gasp, and Sherlock lay a cupped hand over her mouth and nose. “There you go, a little of your own CO2 should help. Nice and easy. Remember when we first met? You had a hard time breathing then, too.”

 Cleery’s eyes were wide over Sherlock’s hand, but she nodded. Her breathing was slowing. Sherlock continued, “I was convinced you were quite the little bugger right then and there. You fought and kicked at me, and then you wouldn’t let go of my hand. Do you remember? Strong, Cleery. Brave, Cleery. Beautiful, Cleery.” Sherlock dropped his hand as her breath and color came back to normal, their eyes locked.

 “I love you, Cleery.”

 “Oh.”

 “I do, I love you, and I know you cannot possibly say it to me. I don’t deserve that.”

 “You don’t. You don’t love me and you – you don’t deserve it.”

 “I’m sorry. I do love you,” Sherlock just wanted to say it over and over, it felt so right coming out of his mouth, saying it to her finally instead of repeating it in his head. His whole body felt alive at this moment – his hands resting on her legs, her hands on his forearms, so close, seeing her blue eyes and sweet nose. Ringlets of sweaty hair framed her forehead and a blush began to rise from her neck to her cheeks. What he was at this moment didn’t matter – he didn’t matter – just Cleery. Sherlock just wanted to take care of her, to be with her, to hear that laughter and be looked at with affection. To have that once, and to have lost it…and now to feel it was perhaps in his reach again – Sherlock leaned forward to kiss her.

 He braced himself, his jaw clenching a bit, preparing for a fist. Though Cleery accepted his kiss, she did not return it.

 “I love you,” he repeated. Cleery turned her head away.

 “Please stop saying that.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “And stop saying that, too. Just stop, okay, please. I can’t think.”

 Sherlock stood up and took two steps back. “I’ll go, then.”

 Cleery still did not turn her head to look at him. “Take Henry with you. I don’t ever want to see that man again. If there’s a horse farm in Alaska, put him there.”

 Sherlock nodded and walked back to where he had parked the Aston Martin. John and Molly were waiting for him there.

 “I see you’re still in one piece,” John muttered.

 “Not now, John.”

 “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Sherlock,” Molly fumed. “Cleery is an amazing person. She’s my friend.”

 “I know. I am truly sorry,” Sherlock said wearily. He handed John the car keys. “Henry will be coming with us. We’ll drop him of with Mycroft. Then, please, I would just like to go home. I need a shower, and then I promise, I’ll tell you both everything.”


	13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, you should have seen it coming.

“Two days, John. Two of the longest, most agonizing days that any human in the existence of the universe has ever had to endure.”

Sherlock twirled his cell phone in his hands. John was sitting in his chair across from his friend, reading the paper. He let the corner of the newspaper drop so he could see Sherlock, whose brow was furrowed as he studied his cell phone, flipping it back and forth like a large poker chip between his fingers.

 “Are you going to text her?” John queried.

 “I believe two days is an appropriate amount of time.” Still, the phone continued to twirl. John propped his paper back up and continued reading.

 “Nervous?”

 No answer, but he could hear the phone continue to twirl. John put the paper down and mentioned that he had something to do in his room. And as soon as he was gone, Sherlock texted:

_Cleery, when can we meet? I know it would be for the best if we can talk._

**_No._ **

_I love you. I’m so sorry. Let me see you again._

**_My apologies if I have not been clear. We are no longer together, nor will I allow you to hope that we will be in the future. Please accept this fact, so both of us may move on. I am sure I will see you at some point in the future in the company of Molly and John. Let’s not make this uncomfortable for them._ ** ****

Sherlock sat in his chair at 221B, staring at his phone for a long time. Reading, re-reading, shaking his head, trying to see if there was some way he had misunderstood. Some damn nuance he was missing. And as if Cleery had known he needed that final nail in the coffin, she texted: 

**_Good-bye, Mr. Holmes._ **

Sherlock flung his phone so hard at the wall it lodged in the plaster. John came running down from upstairs.

“Was that a gunshot – oh,” he said, looking at the wall. Sherlock’s head was deep in his hands, long fingers grasping his hair.

“It’s over, John _. She said it’s over_.”

John bit his lower lip and sat in the chair across from his friend.

“Just give her some time,” John began.

“She doesn’t need time! She doesn’t want time, and she doesn’t want me!” he stood up and began to pace.

“Sherlock, let me talk to her.”

The detective spun around and put a finger up to John’s nose. “You STAY AWAY FROM HER!” he roared. “I _know_ what you did. I see the guilt. I see the way you look at her!”

John’s face turned red with anger. “If you think for one moment I would do that to you, Sherlock, then I am not your friend.”

Sherlock collapsed in his chair, his voice now a whisper. “I am sorry, John. I am just very, very confused right now. And have all _this,_ ” he waved a hand at his chest. “In here.”

John went over to the skull perched on the mantle and pulled a cigarette out of its eyeball. “Those would be called feelings, and I think you need one of these.”

“Do you know all the hiding places for those?”

John smiled and shook his head. “I’m not telling.”

“This is horrible. Like a weight,” Sherlock placed the palm of his hand over his chest and put the cigarette in his mouth.

“That’s a broken heart, my friend.”

“Oh, God. I _do_ have feelings.”

“Sherlock,” John admonished him. “You think by ignoring them, by pushing them away, that they don’t exist? You love Cleery, I know. Give it some time. Take it easy on yourself. Do you want to go out and have a pint tonight?”

The detective looked at his friend with the eyes of a newborn babe. “Is that what men do? When this happens?”

“Sure, I’ll even call Lestrade. We don’t have to talk about it, yeah?”

Sherlock removed the cigarette from his mouth and stood up. He picked up his violin and tucked in under his chin. Gazing out the windows with unseeing eyes, Sherlock replied, “No. I’m fine. But, thank you, John,” and began to play.


	14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he's just being sneaky.

 “Couldn’t be a better day for this, am I right?” Molly gushed to John. The two of them were walking towards the outdoor equestrian stadium with the rest of the crowd, tickets in hand to see Cleery compete. It was the first day of the Olympic trials.

 “It is a beautiful day,” John agreed, then slowed his step a moment. Someone was gesturing to him by the edge of the crowd.

 “Molly, I’ll meet you at our seats, right? Be there in a sec.” John worked his way across the crowd to a security guard that had been attempting to get his attention. It was Sherlock, dressed in the same security uniform as the rest of the staff. The detective gave his friend a smug smile.

 “Sherlock!” John hissed. “This is really ridiculous. Change out of that uniform and put on your own coat. Just what are you hoping to accomplish?”

 “John, its been four months since I last saw Cleery. And approximately 2,946 hours since those fateful five texts. I think its rather obvious what I’m seeking to accomplish.” With a wink, he slid into the crowd and disappeared. John checked in at the gate and soon found his seat. Molly was already there, looking down at the arena. Today’s event was stadium jumping, the course a daunting sixteen obstacles.  

 “Oh, John, hello! Isn’t this exciting! There, I see Cleery!” Molly pointed to a figure just emerging from one of the registration tents with James right behind her. He assisted her with pinning her number to the back of her jacket, then leaned in and gave her a kiss.

 “Oh. My. God,” John said.

 “Oh, he’s been sweet on her for ages. It’s about time they came together,” Molly sighed. “John, what’s wrong?”

 “Sherlock is here, camouflaged as a security guard.”

 “No,” Molly stared at him, slack-jawed. “If he sees them together, he is going to lose it. Completely. We have to go find him.”

 As one, the friends rose from their seats moved down into the crowd, studying each security guard. They agreed to separate to cover more ground. The day was warm and John could feel the sweat trickle down his back. He moved towards the outskirts of the area, where there would be stables and hopefully more security guards would be stationed. John at smiled at each one he met, searching for those familiar gray-blue eyes.

 “Now entering the ring, Clarissa O’Donnell, number eighty-eight, on Winchester’s Red Guard.” John heard over the announcement system.

 “Damn this, I am not going to miss Cleery ride,” John muttered, working his way back through the crowd to the arena. John found Molly by the fence, straining to get a view. 

 “Any luck?”

 “No – and I didn’t want to miss this.”

 “Right.”

 Cleery entered the ring on Winchester, the two of them moving together as one in a slow canter. She was dressed in a bright red riding jacket, white shirt with knotted tie in the colors of Britain, and black jodhpurs and boots. She stood in her stirrups, circling, studying the course one last time. Winchester’s ears were up, intent as his rider. The arena was silent except for the huffing of the horse and the beat of his hooves on the sand.

 John heard Cleery give a ‘ _hup’_ to Winchester and they galloped towards the first obstacle, clearing it easily. At each jump, Cleery bend close to her horse’s neck, giving him rein to stretch over the jump, seeming to merge their two forms into one. Another one cleared. And the next. And the next. John felt his hands clench into fists. Cleery was clear until she had a run of knocking down the eleventh, twelfth and fourteenth obstacles where poles dropped.

 “Clarissa O’Donnell, number eighty-eight, twelve penalties, time of 48.59.”

 “Twelve!” Molly exclaimed.

 “Four per,” John explained. “She did great.” They both knew that the selection trials for the Olympics consisted of several events over the next few weeks and this was just the first. Indeed, Cleery seemed pleased, letting the reins drop over Winchester’s neck and giving him several hard pats on his neck. Her feet dropped from the stirrups and a smile lit her face. A security guard came up to the horse and placed a hand on the horses’ bridle to guide them through the crowd and right past Molly and John.

 The security guard was Sherlock. John elbowed Molly, but she had already seen. Sherlock walked right by them, head low.

 “John! Molly!” Cleery greeted them.

 “You did great, Cleery!” John gulped.

 “Great job!” Molly said in a voice a little too high.

 Cleery gave them a bit of a side glance but continued to smile. James came up to her side, putting a hand on her thigh and looking up at her on the horse.

 “Hold up, bloke,” he said to Sherlock. “Great job, Cleery. What do you think happened at the end?”

 Cleery frowned for a moment. “I felt his haunches drop a bit at the end, I think he was – eh, getting tired.” Her eyes traveled to the hand on Winchester’s bridle and the familiar form attached to that hand. Sherlock had his back to her, head still down, but telltale dark curls could be seen sprouting from under his hat. A deep red began to creep up under the white collar of Cleery’s shirt and into her face. “I should get him, eh…”

 “Cleery?” James asked. Sherlock shifted Winchester’s head so his hindquarters came around and bumped into James. “Ow!”

 “Yes, back for a good wipe down. To the stables. Wipe down Winchester. Back there.”

 James looked confused but raised his chin to encourage a kiss, but Cleery busied herself with her riding gloves. Molly stepped forward and hooked her arm in his elbow, steering him away. “Now why don’t you show me that horse of yours.”

 Sherlock began leading Winchester through the crowd, and Cleery threw a look of panic over her shoulder at John. He could only shrug and smile and shake his head.

 ###

 

Once they had passed through the crowd, it was a quiet walk to the stable. Winchester huffed at Sherlock’s shoulder and playfully nibbled on his shirt. Sherlock obliged by handing a carrot over his shoulder to the horse.

 Cleery cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I believe the stables are to the left.” The hand on Winchester’s bridle continued to guide them to the right towards the quiet shelter of shady trees. When they reached the trees, Sherlock stopped and offered Winchester another carrot, turning towards Cleery and removing his security hat as he did so. Cleery leaped from his back.

 “You’ll spoil him, you know that,” she said. Cleery sidled up to Winchester, her shoulder under his long neck. Her hands played with the neat braids his mane was done up in. The exertion of the stadium jumping had released some of the hair that was tucked up under her hard hat, and the tendrils swayed as she spoke. Her British themed tie and bright red jacket gave her an air of royalty.

  _Mesmerizing. She doesn’t know how beautiful she is. And her eyes…a bit less haunted. Its there a bit, but much less than it was._

 “I know,” Sherlock said. “You look really, really well.”

 Winchester chomped on the carrot loudly and snorted. Sherlock let his bridle go and held the reins loosely in his hands so the horse could drop his head and graze.

 “What are you doing here?” Cleery asked. To Sherlock’s great relief she did not appear angry. Her face was tender, somehow disappointed.

 “I wanted to see you again.”

 Cleery’s booted toe dug into the earth. “I told you we were done.”

 “I didn’t believe you.”

 Cleery laughed, but it was a sad sound. “You always believe what you want, don’t you? Even if it’s not true. I’m sorry the world does not rotate around you, Mr. Holmes. But because it does, it makes this life a terribly lonely place for you.”

 Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He ached. There were a thousand speeches he had rehearsed in his head, but he could barely remember how to speak. Cleery was inches away from him, but unreachable. The weight in his chest was crushing him.

 “Please, Cleery,” was all he could muster.

 “I don’t want you to pine over me, please. I’m sure there’s a thousand other girls that are more interesting than me in London. You need to move on, yeah? Don’t do this.” She took off her hard hat and Sherlock was surprised to not see that long familiar braid fall down her back. Her hair now just barely reached her shoulders, cut in a bob.

 “Oh,” Sherlock breathed. It was quite lovely on her, accentuating the heart shape of her face that he hadn’t noticed before. She tucked several strands behind her ear.

 “A lot has changed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve moved on from you, you know.”

 “Dating that fool, James. I know,” Sherlock tried to look serious but a smile began to play on his lips.

 “Yes, and he’s very nice.”

 “He’s not as smart as me. Or you.”

 “Excuse me!” Cleery said, and Winchester stamped his foot in equal protest. She looked down at the toes of her boots, looking serious again. “I really must go. I would appreciate no further clandestine meetings like this. It doesn’t benefit either of us.”

 She moved towards him and began to take Winchester’s reins from his hands. Her fingers brushed his for a moment, and Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, his chest aching, his head spinning. Cleery was standing close to him, trying to take the reins, her hands on them, close to his.

 When he opened his eyes, words sprung to his lips. They were not rehearsed. They were not thought out. They tumbled out in rapid fire Sherlock fashion, but they were spoken not by his mind, but by his heart.

 “Ms. O’Donnell, you are the most amazing person I have ever met. You are strong, smart, beautiful, fearless and formidable. You are independent, a free spirit, empathetic, and brave. You make anyone around you a better person, not because you seek to bring them up to the place you stand, but because you lift them up to that place. You speak the truth, even if it hurts the person to which you tell it, because you have the foresight to know it is the best thing to do. You take care of others before yourself. In light of these facts, it is a sorry state that this emotionally wooden person stands before you. But you have made me want to be a better person. You have made me the person that wants to lift _you_ up. You have made me the person to recognize how the truth hurts, and when it hurts, to take care of the person it hurts. I love you, Clarissa Martha O’Donnell. I love you.”

 Sherlock drew a shaky breath and blinked his eyes, completely confused and shaken. He had no idea where all that came from. His eyes never left Cleery’s during his speech, and they continued to gaze into them now. Cleery shook her head slowly, and Sherlock saw a tear roll down her cheek. He raised his hand to wipe it away, releasing the reins, but Cleery took a step back and turned her head. She wiped the tear with the cuff of her jacket.

 “Why – why did you just say all that.”

 Sherlock’s mouth worked in silence for a moment, his brain for once attempting to catch up with his words. “Because it is the truth,” he said, shoulders slumping. “That is all I have. I have the truth, Cleery. Nothing more. There is nothing, without you.”

 Cleery took a deep breath and turned to face him, eyes moist with tears. But her chin was up at that predictable tilt.

  _She’s so strong,_ thought Sherlock. _Tenacious._

 “Sherlock,” she whispered. “Give me time, okay. That’s all I can say.”

 The detective stepped back and let her and Winchester pass. He watched them walk slowly to the stables, watching their forms thread their way through the tall, lush grass. When they were out of sight, Sherlock sat down heavily on the ground and put his head between his knees.

  _I am going to vomit. Okay, okay, breathe…._ then he sat up straight, realizing: _She called me Sherlock!_


	15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are they ever, ever, ever, getting back together?

John, on his way down from the flat, passed Mrs. Hudson.

 “Heading out, John?” she asked cheerily. John shot her an angry glance.

 “Yes, anywhere to get away from that miserable man! Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I am sorry,” John stopped on the stairs, shaking his head. “Sherlock is just a bit of a challenge these days, if you know what I mean.”

 “Yes, I noticed he’s a bit on the grumpy side lately. Poor dear. Still waiting to hear from that girl?”

 John nodded. “Its in her hands, now. She told him to give her time. How much time, I have no idea. And neither does Sherlock. There are not enough cases in this world to keep his mind occupied right now. He’s a miserable bast-,”

 “John!!” Sherlock called from the top of the stairs. “John! Where are you going?”

 “Out for a bit, Sherlock. I’ve just got to get out.” John ran down the rest of the steps and was nearly out the door when Mrs. Hudson held up the envelope in her hand.

 “Is her name Clarissa O’Donnell? This is from her, for you, Sherlock.”

 John turned around. “Holy mother of God!” he exclaimed. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs if made from stone.

 “Wh-what it is,” Sherlock licked his lips and shook his head. “What is it?”

 John took it from Mrs. Hudson and brought it up to his friend. “One way to find out!”

 Sherlock nodded, his eyes glazed, and followed John obediently back into the flat. John placed the envelope on the client chair and the flat mates sat in their respective chairs, eyeing it.

 “Well?” John finally asked. Sherlock did not move his eyes from the envelope, as if it would disappear if he did.

 “Well what.”

 “Are you going to open it?”

 “Yes.” But he did not move.

 “Oh, for goodness-,” John reached forward, grabbed it off the chair, and deposited it in Sherlock’s lap. The detective quickly raised his hands from his lap as if it were the plague.

 “It’s an invitation. High grade, premium stationary, hand pressed Olympic logo. She’s inviting me to a party,” Sherlock pronounced.

 “That’s good!”

 Sherlock raised his eyes from the invitation on his lap to meet John’s and slowly shook his head, his hands still held high, now as if in surrender.

 “Oh, right. Parties. You hate parties. You’re terrible at parties,” John said, running his hands through his hair. “Well, you should open it, just to be certain.”

 Sherlock nodded, finally dropped his arms and picked up the card, noting that at one time it had been sealed, but then opened, the card removed, and then re-inserted into the envelope. His olfactory glands picked up the delicate scent of Cleery. The flowing script read:

 

_You and a Guest are Cordially Invited_

_To the Grand Gala Ball_

_And the Announcement of the_

_Finalists for the Olympic Team_

_This Saturday evening the 14 th 7:00 pm_

_At the Westingshire Hotel, London_

_Grand Ballroom_

_Formal Attire Requested_

 

And below this, Cleery had written: _Be my guest? Meet you there at 7:30. -C.O._

“That girl has style, that’s for sure…and formal attire, you’re going to need a tuxedo. Short notice, though. It’s tomorrow night,” John shook his head, laughing. He turned serious when he saw the color had drained out of his friend’s already pale cheeks. “Sherlock, it’s going to be fine. This is a good thing! She wants to see you. Sherlock – Sherlock, put your head between your knees. Breathe, there you go. I’ll get a cold cloth. Mrs. Hudson! Relax, just breath, no, no, keep your head down, Sherlock. _Mrs. Hudson_! I need you!”

 

###

 

 Sherlock Holmes was a man of many contradictions. There were times, for instance, when the man could not resist the sound of his own voice. For hours on end. Spouting knowledge, observations, relishing in the inadequacies of others. Talking to John when he was not there. Proving that they were just seeing, not observing, the fools!

 There was also the quiet Sherlock. Introspective, introverted. Speaking only when spoken to, saying only what was necessary. There were times when John was exposed to the former, but wished for the latter. But not now. John wished Sherlock would say something. But his dear friend had lapsed into a zombie-like state, sitting and staring at nothing. It took all of John and Mrs. Hudson’s doing to convince him he needed to rent a tuxedo, but Sherlock simply stood up and walked into his bedroom, grabbed a garment bag from his closet, and hand it to Mrs. Hudson. She opened it and squealed.

 “Sherlock, I had no idea you had your own tuxedo. I’ll bring it down and press it for you, dear. Don’t you worry.”  Sherlock nodded in response, eyes slowly blinking. That night, John had to steer him into his bed for fear the man would be sitting up all night. The next day was most of the same, Sherlock sipping on a bit of tea and eating nothing.

At 5:00 pm and John sat down on his chair and leaned forward towards Sherlock, hands clasped.

 “Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me. There you go. Now, listen. You should get in the shower, shave, and start getting dressed. You are going, correct? Time for you to snap out of this if you are going to be good company for Cleery. That a’boy, get in the shower.”

 Sherlock stood up and shuffled into the bathroom.

 ###

 

Sherlock let the shower run before he got in. He inhaled the steam, taking long, slow breaths.

  _Pull it together, man. This may be your last chance,_ he thought. The shower did revive him, the scalding water putting a glow on his face. For once, his jumble of curls lay neatly and Sherlock had to admit, there was nothing like _looking_ good in a tux to make one _feel_ better. He allowed John to fetch a cab for him and as Sherlock folded himself into the car, John leaned in.

 “Behave yourself, Sherlock,” he said with a grin.

 Sherlock pretended to straighten his bowtie. “Of course not,” he replied, forcing a half-smile.  John opened his mouth to say something else, but thought better of it. He just gave a nod and closed the door.

 Sherlock had the cab drop him off two blocks away from the hotel, preferring to walk. That all too familiar clenching in his chest and rapid staccato of his heart was back. He forced himself to take deep breaths and slow his pace. It reminded him of the time, so long ago, when he had taken that fateful walk up Cleery’s driveway to see her after she was discharged from the hospital. He was feeling those same feelings, that same excitement/nervousness that was irritating and somewhat sensual at the same time.

  _Why this? Why not a phone call, or a cup of tea? Why not dinner at her house, near the fire?_

 He entered the hotel, checked his Belstaff and proceeded to the ballroom.

 “Excuse me, sir,” a chubby man with small glasses and in a tightly fitting tuxedo puffed after him. “I need to see your invitation, please.”

 Sherlock did not allow his panic to show on his face. _The invitation!_ It was back at the flat.

 “I do not require an invitation,” he said, pulling himself up to his full height. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

 “Are you on the list, sir?” The man wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and consulted a clipboard in his hand.

 “It’s all right, Frank, he’s with me,” said a voice. Sherlock turned, and there was Cleery. Her now short hair had been molded into soft waves around her face. It was parted to the side, one side partially pulled back and held there with a diamond and ruby studded clip. She wore a red dress, the top wrapping around her neck and baring her toned arms. The material snugged her hips then dropped to the ground. It flowed around her as she walked up to Sherlock, meeting his eyes with that lovely tilt to her head. She was wearing a bit more makeup than usual, some eye shadow and mascara and a touch of pink on her lips and cheeks. His heart pounded, his chest tightened. He blinked rapidly, not believing his eyes. He was seeing her, for the first time, in so long. Sherlock would not have cared if she was in her grungiest work clothes slathered in manure. That smile, that tilt of her head, that angle of her nose, that smoothness of her chin. How he wanted to take his hands and place them on her cheeks and bring her lips to his.

 “Yes, I’m with her,” Sherlock responded, crooking his arm to take hers. He felt like he was dreaming. He didn’t think, he just did.

 Frank worried over his list. “Ms. O’Donnell, I’m sorry, I just don’t see him on my list -,”

 “Frank, this is _Sherlock Holmes_. He doesn’t need to be on any list!” Cleery patted the little man on his shoulder. “Don’t fret, really. Like I said, he’s with me. This way, Sherlock. Will you get me a glass of champagne?”

 “Of course,” Sherlock lay his hand over the part of her arm that looped through his. Her skin was soft and he noticed the goosebumps that arose at his touch.

  _She’s feeling it, too._

 They entered the grand ballroom, a monolith of a room that was over two stories high. It was lavishly decorated with murals and crystal chandeliers. The room was crowded with people that mingled in between the tables set for dinner, the bar, the dancefloor, and Sherlock could hear the strains of music from a band in one corner.

 Sherlock picked a flute of champagne off a passing tray and handed it to Cleery.

 “Thank you,” she replied, a pink blush creeping into her cheeks.  “Are you going to have one?” she asked. He shook his head, but wondered if it would help him loosen up a bit in this large crowd. Alcohol had only served to addle his brain in the past, so he certainly did not want that to happen tonight.

 Cleery was speaking to him.  

 “Were you surprised?” she was saying. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in a question.

 “Were you surprised to get the invitation?” she repeated.

 “Very. But very pleased, as well. Nervous,” he added before he could stop himself. Cleery placed a hand on his arm.

 “I know. I am too. I thought of a million different ways to get back in touch with you. And the invitation arrived, and I just thought it would be perfect. That this…would keep us busy, if things got awkward.”

 Sherlock’s brow furrowed deeper and he opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but a woman came up to Cleery and gave her a hug and started talking to her. Cleery introduced her to Sherlock. Sherlock felt sick. Too much to figure out, to understand, too many emotions, too much noise. Too many people. Two more people approached Cleery, and he took a step back and turned, desperate for just a few moments of quiet. He left the ballroom and found a dark wall around the corner from the coat check. He slumped against it, resting his head heavily on the heels of his palms.

  _If things got awkward? I don’t understand. What is she so afraid of – that I wouldn’t want to be here? Well I’m here and she’s going to like it._

 A bit more resolved, he stood up and pulled down on his tuxedo jacket and marched back into the ballroom. Cleery was now in the center of a group of eight men and women. Sherlock watched for a moment, seeing how everyone wanted to be near her. To talk to her, to have her talk to them. But he wanted to be with her more. He cut into the group and held a hand to Cleery.

 “Excuse us, please. She is with me,” he said. Cleery’s eyes lit up and she accepted his hand with a nod of her head. He pulled her from the group and on to the dance floor. 

 “Sherlock, no one else is dancing,” she giggled nervously.

 “Then they can watch.”

 “I am not a very good dancer – remember the manured ballerina?”

 “Well, you are in luck, my dear Clarissa. Because I am, and I am also an excellent lead,” with that, he led her a step away from him and encouraged her to turn under his arm. She spun gracefully on her modest heels.

 “Oh!” she said, eyes sparkling.

 “Have I mentioned that you look smashing,” he said, pulling her close again and whispering in her ear. Tonight, she had a bit of a citrus smell to her, but Sherlock could still detect the undertones of sweet hay and leather. He closed his eyes, leading her in the slow four step of a waltz.

 “Yes. But that compliment will not wear out. You are looking incredibly handsome yourself, Mr. Holmes.”

 “We are not going back to formality again, are we?” Sherlock dropped his hand from between her shoulders to the small of her back and brought her in close to him. He was feeling better. A bit more in control of the situation. Closer to her, not so much of a stranger. A lock of her hair brushed his nose and she brought her lips to his ear.

 “I have been missing you, Sherlock,” she said. He closed his eyes and sighed. There it was. Release. What he had been waiting for. Some sign, something to indicate that she really wanted him here with her, he realized. The invitation was a start, but to have her in his arms, to want to be near him, to hear the words meant – and felt – like so much more. It was confirmation.

 He hummed the tune the band was playing in her ear, and one of her hands closed around the back of his neck and played with the bottom strands of his hair.

 "So I'm just not arm candy, is what you’re saying,” he teased. Cleery gave a mock gasp.

 “Well, of course you are. Look around you, Sherlock. You are the most handsome man in the room.”

 Sherlock laughed.

 “I’m sorry if I have been cruel. You hurt me. I just needed time,” she continued. Sherlock nodded, but did not speak. He learned long ago just to let her talk. “Everything got very emotional…and complicated. It was like I couldn’t think,” her voice began to shake, and Sherlock pulled her closer. “I was scared that you wouldn’t come tonight – that I hurt you too much. I am a lot better now, really. I’m still seeing a therapist. I can do much better -,”

  _She was afraid that I would be mad at her. That I didn’t really want to be here. That it would be awkward._

 “You do not have to convince me, Cleery,” Sherlock whispered soothingly. “I am here because I want to be, because I miss you, and because I love you.”

 She relaxed in his arms and Sherlock felt a smile pull back her cheek as he lay his head against hers.

 “And I’m so sorry you didn’t make the team,” he said. Cleery pulled back her head to look at him.

 “You knew?”

 “Yes, I am aware of everyone’s scores and the ranking criteria. I followed it…very closely.”

 “The let’s get out of here,” she said. “Its true. Everyone basically knows ahead of time. We all know each other’s scores. This is just a formality. I’m here because I’ll be on the team in four years. Just appearances sake. Smoozing with the sponsors,” Cleery shrugged. “I’m actually not that surprised. I missed a lot of training. Don’t be sad, because I’m not. Really.”

 Sherlock pulled her back in close and wrapped his arms around her. “Well, I am sorry. I am sorry that our country will miss out on the gold because you will not be there.”

 “I’m not sure how to take that!” Cleery laughed as Sherlock dropped his arms and grasped one of her hands. They walked out of the ballroom together, Cleery waving good-byes, Sherlock nodding his. They retrieved their coats from the check and stepped outside. It was one of those London nights where the fog lay thick and the air was moist.  Cleery shivered in her wrap and Sherlock put his arm around her as they walked down the grand stairs to the sidewalk.

 “Where to?” she asked, but then they both turned at the sound of footsteps racing up behind them.

 “Clarissa O’Donnell!” A man came out of the hotel, searching for Cleery and calling her name. Sherlock felt her stiffen under his arm. The man caught sight of her and came running down the stairs.

 “Clarissa O’Donnell?” he asked.

 “Who is asking,” Sherlock’s arm now served as protection as well as warmth.

 “I’m Harold Lambert, coach of the U.S. Olympics equestrian team. Is there a place we can talk?” he said, extending his hand to Cleery, then Sherlock. He was a handsome man in his 50’s with short dark hair that was graying at the temples. Sherlock noted the slightly bowed legs and assessed he was telling the truth.

 “What is this regarding?” Cleery asked. Harold looked from one to the other and shrugged.

 “I can tell you right here. I’d like to ask you to be on the U.S. Olympic equestrian team. I understand you are half-American, so to speak, and you just missed being on the British team. Big time loss on their end, Clarissa. You are an amazing athlete.”

 Sherlock could feel Cleery was stunned. She made an “oh” sound and look confused as Harold handed her his card.

 “Call me tomorrow. Let’s get together and talk, and if you’re a go, we have a lot of details to iron out. We’d want to get you over to the states to begin training immediately. The Olympics are only six months away. I hope you come on over. I’m a big fan,” Harold shook their hands again and strode back up the stairs to the hotel. Cleery tucked his card into her clutch and shook her head.

 “That didn’t just happen,” she finally said. They began walking down the sidewalk, Sherlock’s arm now by her side. He felt the warmth of her fingers thread into his. 

 “Congratulations,” Sherlock mumbled. His heart felt heavy again, both with guilt and sadness. Guilt because he could not be happy for her since he knew he would be sad that she would be on a different continent if she accepted the offer. She squeezed his hand but kept looking forward.

  
“I haven’t accepted,” she said as if she could already read his emotions.  “My first reaction is that I can’t. I can’t compete against the same people that could have potentially been my team mates. Winning a metal for the U.S. wouldn’t feel the same. This is my country. It really is.”

 Sherlock stopped and turned to face her. He felt his lips turn into a gentle smile. “You are amazing,” he said. “Don’t make up your mind yet. And don’t worry about me. Please.”

 Cleery returned the smile. “Yeah. This has been a very big night.”

 “Are you tired?”

 “No…but,” she paused.

 “Yes?”

 “You haven’t kissed me yet.”

 “Ah,” Sherlock resumed walking, his hand finding hers again. He swore, he could hear her pout. “Yes, the kiss. Well, as I mentioned earlier, I was a bit nervous about tonight.”

 “The operative word being, ‘was’.”

 “I have put a lot of thought into the kiss. I am a man of deductions, as you know,” he heard Cleery groan. “You see, I was not certain how this evening would turn out. Would we simply shake hands at the end of the evening, parting as friends? Would one of us realize this evening was simply a mistake, loathing the mere sight of the other? Or would the fire between us be reignited? Human nature is not a science, though emotions are chemically based. And since emotions can be manipulated by exterior forces, it is often difficult to come to a completely logical conclusion.”

 Cleery huffed, annoyed. “So your saying you don’t want to kiss me.”

 Sherlock lifted his arm up and guided her under it, exactly like the spin they had performed together on the dance floor. When Cleery came back up around, Sherlock brought her close so close that their lips were millimeters apart. “I’m saying that you’re wearing red, Cleery. The color of passion, of desire. That there is indeed a fire between us that has reignited. I’m saying that I have been waiting all night to kiss you.” His lips touched hers softly, relishing in the  breath of relief that escaped from them. They kissed again and again, soft, exploring, tentative kisses. Her hands smoothed over his cheeks then crept through his hair.

 “I have missed you,” she whispered as he turned his head to kiss her neck and behind her ear. Here the scent of citrus was stronger where she had dabbed on a bit of perfume.  He breathed deeply, intoxicated.

 “Come to Baker Street,” he asked. He felt her tense for a moment, then nod yes. They resumed their slow walk, Sherlock guiding them through the streets, past the open pubs with their groups of rowdy men spilling into the street; past the closed and darkened cafes; past the food stands where they purchased an order of chips, laughing how they had almost forgotten they were still in their formal wear. At last they arrived at 221B. Cleery held back just a minute.

 “John?”

 “Out with a girlfriend,” Sherlock said. She nodded and holding up her dress, climbed the stairs behind him. Sherlock unlocked the door, praying that John or Mrs. Watson had done just a bit of tidying up. He had no idea what state his living quarters would be in. Thankfully, besides the piles of notes and books on Sherlock’s desk, the flat was in good shape. He took Cleery’s wrap and hung it up next to his coat and tuxedo jacket and loosed his bowtie. He bent down to start a fire, watching Cleery from the corner of his eye.

 She circumvented the space, fingers trailing along the bookshelves, the back of John’s chair, the wall, the couch, the desks, back to the fire. Finally she sat in his chair – her eyes asking permission, which he nodded and granted – and she eased her heels off her feet.

 The fire crackled pleasantly, the first flames reflecting off her bare skin making it appear golden. Sherlock knelt in front of her, thinking how it was he who was now at the alter of Cleery, the fiery goddess in the red dress and the golden skin. She leaned forward and kissed him, less tentatively than before, more confident, more full of desire. Her hands removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, her hands smoothing over his bare chest. He pulled her onto him and lay back, so she was on top of him and they were on the floor, their lips never parting. Sherlock unclasped the barrette in her hair ran his fingers through the soft curls, something he had been thinking about doing all night. He ran his hands down her back, feeling the soft material of her dress, the curve of her back as it sunk in and up again to her buttocks. He was hard and he knew she could feel it.

 He was happy. Probably the happiest he’d ever been. Cleery was his match – maybe more so. Formidible. Strong. Independent. But she made him feel needed. No, it was more than a feeling. He was needed. She had chosen him, pulled him into her life, enveloped him with her intoxicating spirit. Sherlock’s heart pumped, not the rapid, nervous staccato of before, but with desire and a longing fulfilled that burned though his veins like a potent elixir.

 He rolled, placing Cleery gently on the floor while he propped himself on an elbow, on hand holding his head and the other on her waist. Her hands were above her head and she stretched and smiled up at him.

 “You are so incredibly lovely to look at,” she said to him. The fire had picked up now, and he imagined that it was reflecting off his skin much like it had hers.

 “So I was just arm candy after all, then,” he said softly with a smile. Cleery tilted her head up and laughed, a laugh that was hearty and real. Sherlock took the opportunity to kiss her neck, sliding his hand that rested on her waist, slowly, up her side, brushing her breast, scaling the fingernails along the exposed underside of her arm and to her hands. She turned her head and moaned, offering more of her neck to him. She raised one of her legs and wrapped it around him so that he was straddling her and they begin to move together, separated by the clothes they still wore, but together now than ever before. Sherlock heard her gasp with pleasure.

 “It’s okay,” he asked. She nodded, eyes holding his, biting her lower lip.

 He dropped his head and kissed her bare shoulders, still moving, his breath catching in his throat as Cleery thrust up into him, whispering his name.

 “Sherlock, Sher….lock….what you do to me,” she said.

 He dropped his head further, rubbing his mouth against her breasts, pleased as he had suspected that she was not wearing a bra. He could feel her nipples raise as he kissed them through the fabric of her dress.

 And then he heard a noise. A key in the lock at the bottom of the stairs.

 “Cleery!” Sherlock whispered.

 “Hmmm,” she answered, drowsy with pleasure.

 “John’s home.”

 “Oh!” Cleery sat up. Footsteps up the stairs, slow.

 “My room – end of the hall. Maybe you should go there.”

 She nodded and gathered up her dress. She was halfway down the hall and John’s key was turning in the lock but she turned around and came back as Sherlock tossed her shoes to her and she caught them in the gathers of her dress. The door was opening as Sherlock’s bedroom door was closing and the detective sat down in his chair and buttoned up his shirt and grabbed a book as John stepped in.

 “Ah, hello, John,” Sherlock greeted him.

 “Sherlock! Back home so soon?”

 “I could say the same for you,” Sherlock pretended to take particular interest in his book. His eyes were unseeing, however. The thrum of Cleery being so close to him one moment and gone the next was unsettling.

 “Yeah, well, Holly and I just weren’t working out. How did everything go with you? How was it?”

 “Oh, well, rather droll. The whole thing. Pomp and circumstance. A bunch of pseudo-athletes prancing around on bowed legs taking credit for all the work the horses do. Boring.”

 “You did see Cleery there?” John shrugged off his coat and hung it up.

 “Oh, yes. We chatted for a bit. I think we may see more of each other in the future.”

 John sat down in his chair across from Sherlock. “That’s great news. You’re…your’re pleased about that, I gather?”

 “Obviously.”

 John took the book from Sherlock’s hands, turned it 180 degrees, and returned it. “So pleased you decided to read Tolstoy upside-down.”

 Sherlock clamped the book shut and walked to his room. “Good night, John.”

 “Good night, Sherlock,” and a bit louder, “Good night, Cleery!”

 There was a gasp and then muffled laughter behind Sherlock’s door. “Good night, John!”

 


	16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little twist.

It was ten o’clock the next morning when John finally came down from his room. He had been up since six, but he had a couple of good books to catch up on so he staying in bed. Besides, he didn’t want to intrude on any morning good-byes the couple downstairs may have. But he didn’t hear anything the whole morning. Not a door squeaking, not a toilet flushing, no quiet murmurs. So it was finally at ten he skipped down to the flat, eager to start his day at last.

 It was dead quiet. Perhaps he had missed them, they had both snuck out before he was awake? It was possible, as Sherlock was an early riser, but his flat mate’s door at the end of the hallway was still closed. There were no fresh tea cups out, nothing to indicate someone had arisen before him. Ah, and Cleery’s wrap still hung on the coat rack, next to Sherlock’s Belstaff and tuxedo jacket. She still must be here.

 John set about making tea, clattering the cup a bit louder than usual to let them know he was up and about.

 Still nothing from the room at the end of the hallway.

 After tea, he put on his coat and left the flat. When he returned an hour later, toting the newspaper and some pastries, the flat was still quiet. The door still closed. No new cups out, the wrap still there.

 Now he was worried. Irrational thoughts flooded his brain – had they been poisoned? Drugged? Pulled out the window by some nemesis of Sherlock’s?

 It was noontime. Sherlock had never, ever slept this late.

 John crept down the hallway, wincing at every squeak the old wooden floor made under his feet. He slowly turned the knob and inched the door open a few centimeters. The shades in Sherlock’s room had been drawn down halfway, allowing some of the dim sunlight in. John could see that Sherlock was awake, lying flat and holding a book up with one hand and reading, tilting the book to capture some of the sunlight as to read by. Cleery was still sleeping, and this was why Sherlock was not moving and reading in such an awkward position. She was wearing one of Sherlock’s buttoned down shirts, the sleeves down past the ends of her arms, one of which was flung over his bare chest. Her head was dead center on his chest, her jaw slack but her face radiating a deep, restful sleep. There was no way Sherlock would be able to move without waking her. So he chose to stay.

 John felt – something – like a twist – in his stomach. Inexplicable. Envy? The two of them in the bed looked so completely at ease, so natural. So comfortable. 

 Sherlock slid his eyes to John and winked. John gave a quick nod and closed the door, the latch clicking loudly in the silence of the flat.

 ###

 

The door closed, the latch clicking loudly in the silence of the flat. Cleery gave a big sigh and rubbed her eyes.

 “Who’s there?” she mumbled.

 “Shh, go back to sleep,” Sherlock said, placing his book down. Cleery rolled off Sherlock and onto her side so that her back was to him.

 “I had the best night of sleep ever,” she said, her voice still thick.

 “Then sleep some more,” Sherlock slid out of bed, grabbed some clothes, and pulled on his dressing gown. Cleery’s eyes were closed and blonde hair frayed over her cheek, the oversized shirt gaping and revealing a bare shoulder. He leaned over and gave it a tender kiss.

  _She’s an angel, and she’s in my bed._

“No, no…I should get up…,”

 “You sound far from convincing. Besides, you haven’t any clothes. Just your ball gown.”

 “Oh….crap. That was your plan all along, you sneaky bastard. To keep me trapped in this bed.”

 Sherlock chuckled. “Let me see if John has anything left behind by a girlfriend. But until then, stay. You’re still not sleeping well.”

 She waved him off, her head deep in a pillow. “Go away, stop analyzing me.”

 Sherlock smiled and slipped out the door, down the hallway and into the bathroom. He took a steamy shower, contemplating the night before. The arrival of John had changed the mood last night. In his bedroom, Cleery slipped into one of his shirts and fell asleep. It was the first time they had shared a bed. There were all those times that he was at her mansion, visiting. He had always slept in a different bedroom or simply dozed in the chair in her room. But last night they had been under the sheets, together. He had lain awake in that bed, watching Cleery sleep, hopelessly aroused.

 He knew he wasn’t much of a lover. Sure, there were a few girls here and there in University that he had slept with to see what all the fuss was about. And truth be told, he was not a sexual being. He did not seek it the way other men seemed to – the way John seemed to. But Cleery had awoken something in him that was not there before. Desire. Lust. He craved her. Looking back, those feelings of want were not there before because she was just too damaged. But now she seemed much better, she seemed last night like she wanted to go further.

 Thinking about how close he had been to her last night…how his sheets would smell like her tonight…he was becoming aroused again right there  in the shower. It was becoming a switch that was getting harder to turn off. He still wanted to be careful with Cleery. Taking it at her pace.

 He flipped the water to cold and stood in the shower until his teeth clattered.

 Once dressed, he went out in the kitchen for a hot cup of tea. John was sitting at his desk on his computer. Sherlock broke off a corner of the pastry and grabbed the paper. He sat at his desk, facing John.

 “Pastries?” Sherlock asked him, perusing the paper.

 “Eh, yes. I was out this morning and I thought it might be a good idea to have something decent to eat here for your…guest.”

 “Good.”

 “She…still sleeping?” asked John.

 “Mmmhmm.” Sherlock studied the paper.

 “So. That’s good. Last night must have been exhausting in the bedroom. In mean, the ball. The ball must have been exhausting,” John furrowed his brow and stared at his computer, a blush creeping into his cheeks. Sherlock sat back from his paper and sipped his tea, studying his friend. “I’ve got some emails for you to look at. Potential cases. There’s a very interesting one here, uh, let me just find it.”

 “John. _John_.”

 John glanced up from his computer.

 “Are you not comfortable with the fact that I have a…guest.”

 “No, no, totally fine. Absolutely. Not a problem.”

 “Because there have been many times that you have brought home a…guest.”

 “Yes, I know that, and you’ve always been fine with that.”

 “All right then,” Sherlock said, back to his paper. “Then perhaps one of your guests have left clothes behind that mine may borrow?”

 


	17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John manages to get in trouble with Sherlock. Sherlock manages to get in trouble all by himself.

John didn’t know how Sherlock could do it. Just turn it off. He watched from the window above as the detective kissed Cleery good-bye and put her in a taxi home. Then Sherlock came bounding up the stairs and asked to see those emails John had mentioned earlier. Down to work, down to the game, getting the game on. Whatever.

 Because it had been a long, intimate kiss. Where Sherlock had held her face and her hands were on his waist, fingers looped through the belt loops of his pants and pulled close. He had whispered in her ear and she had laughed. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and pale pink t-shirt that John had found. He almost got caught watching, when Cleery had laughed, her head tilting back and glancing to the window. John had moved out of view just in time.

 And now Sherlock wanted to read these emails and head over to St. Bart’s and visit a body that Molly had said was interesting.

 “I don’t know how you do it,” he muttered.

 “What?”

 “Ah, no, never mind. Ready to head over to St. Bart’s?”

 "Obviously,” Sherlock said, checking his phone and humming. _Humming._

 At the hospital, Sherlock was actually chatting with Molly about the ball. Telling her things that he hadn’t told John – John hadn’t really asked, he supposed – he felt his jaw clench.

 “How about this body, then, eh?” John interrupted. Sherlock and Molly looked at him in surprise.

 “Yes, of course,” Molly said. “Found under a tarp behind an abandoned home, you can see the body is badly decomposed. Been there a while.”

 “On grass or pavement?” Sherlock asked as he flipped through the file.

 “Grass.”

 “Nope. The body was moved there. See, in this photograph the grass is still green. If the tarp had been covering it for a while, it would have been brown.”

 “Pretty hard to move a body in this bad of shape,” John added.

 “I’ll text Lestrade and tell him to check the landlord’s car for evidence,” Sherlock said.

 “Why the landlord?” Molly asked.

 “This house is owned by a landlord that also has several other properties. Properties in better areas of town. This dead man sold drugs – and did very well by it by the look of his clothes and his watch – which, you can see, was not stolen by the person that murdered him. The murderer detested him, so he certainly did not want anything to do with him, even an expensive watch. Our victim here had something on the landlord and was using it as leverage to try and get in the nicer neighborhoods to procreate his drug trade. The landlord did not want that, he is on the verge of becoming a respectable business man. Was on the verge. Remember, you must not just see, but _observe_. John, let’s head over to the yard where he was found. We may need a bit more evidence to support my deductions.”

 “Cleery’s dress,” John mumbled.

 “What did you say?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he swung his head towards his friend.

 “Ah – sorry! Just thinking out loud. It was nothing.”

 Sherlock came within inches of John’s face. “What. Did. You. Say.”

 John took a step back and looked at his shoes. “I was just thinking that Cleery forgot her dress this morning.”

 “Oh!” said Molly, glancing between the two. It was an incredibly awkward silence that followed. Although Molly was a dear friend to both Cleery and Sherlock, Molly still carried a rather large torch for the detective. The thing that had initially brought the two women together was how Sherlock was a source of hurt to both. Certainly, their relationship had deepened since then, but it was a challenge for Molly to see Cleery with Sherlock. Molly knew that they were going to the ball together, but to hear that Cleery’s dress was at Sherlock’s flat could only mean one thing. Molly’s hands shook as she zipped the body bag up and gathered up her paperwork.

 “It’s – it’s not like that, Molly,” Sherlock said. “She was just tired and stayed -,” he threw his hands up in the air. “Why am I even explaining this!?!”

 He grabbed his coat and scarf and fled the room.

 “Molly, you all right?” John asked her. She obviously was not, as she turned from John to hide the tears that threatened to overflow.

 “Sure, sure. I guess it had to happen someday. It’s not like Sherlock was going to wait for me forever,” she laughed bitterly. “Go ahead, I’m sure he’s waiting for you.”

 John nodded and headed outside where Sherlock was waving a taxi. He glanced over his shoulder at John.

 “Why were you thinking about the dress, John.”

 “It just popped in my head. Eh, Cleery may be missing it. Or it should be hung up, might get damaged on the floor. I’m sure it was expensive.” 

 “Perhaps you would like to explain why you were watching her and I this morning from the window. How you went into my room and saw the dress on the floor.”

  “I – I am friends to you both. I want to make sure that everything is okay. I don’t want either of you to get hurt, I guess I’m being protective. I’m sorry.”  Was that the real reason? Why was he doing these things? Both men were flushed with emotion.

 A taxi pulled to the curb. “You take the next one. I need to think. As a matter of fact, why don’t you just not come,” Sherlock entered the taxi and slammed the door shut.

  _Oh, my God_. John ran his hands through his hair. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

 

###

Sherlock’s phone buzzed with a text while he was in the cab. It was his brother.

**_How are things?_ **

_What do you want._

**_Have a case for you._ **

_I’m busy. Give it to someone else._

**_Busy wasting your time on landlords and drug lords? You can do better than that._ **

Sherlock tossed it on the seat beside him and ignored it until he noticed a different person was texting him.

**_I forgot my dress!_ **

_Don’t worry, it’s safe. It’s your excuse to come back._

**_Do I need an excuse?_ **

_No._

**_U OK?_ **

Sherlock sighed. How could she tell? But how could he explain the odd behavior of their friend?

_Just on a case._

**_I’ll be back in town in 2 days to have lunch with John, I’ll stop by and pick up my dress then._ **

_I’ll miss you._

**_I’ll miss you too. Going riding. Bye!_ **

_Bye_

Sherlock stared out the window. When it rains, it pours, his mother had always said. Cleery was back in his life, Mycroft wanted something, John was acting strange, Molly was upset. Now Cleery was planning a lunch with John, which made Sherlock just damned uncomfortable. The detective gritted his teeth, seeking to push off his distractions, as the taxi stopped at the house where the murder victim had been found.  

The cab driver looked nervously at the surrounding houses. They were derelict with broken windows, trash in the yards, and abandoned vehicles.

“This the right place?”

“Yes, yes. Wait for me here,” Sherlock said. He got out of the cab and walked to the backyard. He looked around for a little bit, and began to walk around the house to the other side.

“Hey!” A man appeared on the steps of a neighboring house. He was dressed in a stained t-shirt his large belly protruded over the belt of his worn jeans. “Ya, you! What d’ya want?”

“I’m police, investigating the murder,” Sherlock said.

“Hey, you don’t look like police. What d’ya want around here?”

“I can assure you, I am with the police. I’m a consulting detective. Did you see any activity in this yard yesterday or the day before, or were you drunk then, too?”

“Wha’ didya say!” the man came down the steps unsteadily and grabbed a plank of wood on the way towards Sherlock, who could smell the rank of alcohol and vomit on him.

“I can assure you, sir, I am on my way out,” Sherlock raised his hands and began to back away. Unfortunately he was on the other side of the house, out of view of the taxi. The man took a swing at Sherlock with the plank of wood. Sherlock easily sidestepped it, which seemed to anger the man more. Sherlock took another step back, placing a foot on a round glass bottle that swept his foot out from under him. He felt a sharp pain as he landed on the ground on his hip.

“Don’t like folks comin’ around here!” the man yelled, coming down with the plank. Sherlock managed to roll to the side, but still man contact with the plank on his shoulder. Though the man wasn’t coordinated, his full weight behind the makeshift weapon made a resounding crack. Sherlock was stunned by the blow, but quickly kicked at the man’s legs in an effort to disable him. As the man fell, he made for one more swipe at Sherlock’s head. The detective went to lift his arm to ward off the blow, but found that he couldn’t move his arm – that last blow to the shoulder had perhaps broken something. The plank hit Sherlock over one eye, making him see stars. Sherlock managed to scramble to his feet and raced to the cab.

“Get us out of here!” Sherlock yelled.

“Yer bleeding, sir!”

“Yes, I know – now, drive!”

“Here you go, sir, here’s something to stop the bleeding on your head,” the taxi driver passed him back a cloth as he pulled away from the curb. “You want me to bring you to a hospital?”

“No. 221B Baker Street.”

The driver glanced in the rear view mirror at Sherlock, but he knew there would be no changing his passenger’s mind. Sherlock had to grit his teeth to keep from shouting out every time the cab hit a bump – the pain in his shoulder rocketed down to his fingers and up to his head. Finally at Baker Street, he tossed some money to the cabbie and stumbled up the stairs to the flat.

“John!” he called, falling to his knees. His vision was tunneled and he knew he would black out in a moment or two. He half-crawled, half-hobbled to his chair, but he collapsed on the floor. “Dammit, JOHN!”

 


	18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected guest arrives at Sherlock and Cleery's sleepover. Warning: the chapter gets a little sexy. Tee-hee-hee!

John heard Sherlock come in and shout his name.

  _I’m not going down there to be berated. Everything I did was for him and Cleery._

But then he heard a sound like someone falling and a note of desperation in Sherlock’s voice. “Dammit, JOHN!”

 John raced down the stairs to find the detective on the floor, barely conscious. He rolled Sherlock onto his back, noting the odd angle of his shoulder and the bruising and bleeding above one eye. He checked Sherlock’s pulse, but it was strong.

 “That’s what you get for leaving me home,” John said. 

 “I did not leave you home. I just told you not to come,” Sherlock mumbled.

 “Right. You’re always right, Sherlock. Come on, then, let’s sit you up. Slowly, now.”

 Sherlock groaned as John sat him upright and Sherlock scooted so his back was against his chair.

 “What happened?” John flashed a flashlight in Sherlock’s eyes to check the pupils. Equal and reactive.

 “Angry neighbor. Drunk, too.”

 “You’ve got a dislocated shoulder. I’ve got to fix it.”

 Sherlock fixed his jaw and nodded. “Right. Count of – _ahhh_!!!”

 John had simply grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and snapped the shoulder back into place. Sherlock groaned and swore.

 “You’re going to need to have that wound cleaned. Come on into the kitchen, I can do it there under better light.” He helped Sherlock out of his coat and pulled out a chair for him to sit on.

 “I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said.

 “Accepted. I know this relationship stuff is all new to you and maybe it has you a little – emotional? You need to trust me, Sherlock. You and Cleery are very, very dear to me and I would never do anything to hurt either one of you.”

 “But you went in my room and hung up the dress when you got home, didn’t you.”

 John nodded as he cleaned the wound over Sherlock’s eyebrow. The detective sighed.

 “Thank you.”

 “But I cut off a swatch of it and will forever sleep with it under my pillow.”

 “Very funny, John. Very funny.”

 

###

 

Sherlock didn’t like it when Cleery got mad. It seemed that when she was mad, she was mad at HIM. And right now, she was mad, and she was mad at HIM. It made the buzzing in his head from his concussion worse.

 “Why didn’t you call me? I can’t believe this! You get hurt and I don’t know until two days later? I’m having lunch with John and he told me about all this. At the end of lunch, mind you!”

 Cleery was standing in the middle of 221B, red faced and yelling. Her hands were in her hair, pulling it in different directions. John and Mrs. Hudson had escaped to the kitchen, exchanging smiles about the despondent detective slouched in his chair.

 “I didn’t really think it necessary. I was fine,” shrugged Sherlock.

 “You don’t look fine!” Indeed, the knock on the head had bruised up nicely, circling around Sherlock’s eye in a pattern of purples and blues. His shoulder was still sore, and he held his arm gingerly with his other hand.

 “Communication. That is what makes this relationship, or any relationship, work,” Cleery continued. “We tell each other things. Good and bad. Right.”

 “I’ll tell you next time. Promise,” Sherlock said, trying to smile. That look in her eyes was crushing him. Sadness. Disappointment.

 Cleery fell to her knees in front of him, her voice softening. “I want to know these things because I care. Because I want to take care of you, one of these days. Don’t shut me out.” She lay her head on his lap and he attempted to right her hair.

 “How about some tea,” Mrs. Hudson came in to the living room with a full tray. “Cleery dear, you are so sweet. How you put up with the likes of him, I’ll never know. Here you go, dear. Sherlock, you can wait. You got her all upset. You too, John. You should have at least called.”

 “Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” the men recited. Mrs. Hudson winked at Cleery who finally smiled.

 “Got to keep these boys in line, don’t we,” she said to Cleery.

 “Obviously,” Cleery deadpanned, just like Sherlock. John swallowed his tea to keep from laughing. “I’ve got the Aston Martin today. Pack a bag, darling, I’m bringing you to the estate. I’m going to take care of you.”

 Knowing it would be useless to argue any further, Sherlock nodded.

 

###

 

It was a grateful Sherlock that lay in Cleery’s bed that night. She had driven him here, fed him some warm, comforting stew and given him a small glass of bourbon. Now he was now laying back in the pillows of her bed as Cleery put on some soft music on her record player.

“Why is this the first time I have been in this bed,” he stated, his voice drowsy. Cleery shut off the light and crawled in beside him, careful not to shake the mattress. She was dressed in a silky blue pajama shirt that dropped to just above her knees. Sherlock drank in the sight of her long legs as they slide beneath the sheets.

“Not first time on it, but certainly first time in it,” she said. “This was the sight of our first kiss.”

“True, true.”

“It’s been quite a long road, Sherlock. Can you believe all of it? That we’ve come this far?”

“Yes.”

“You would say that,” Cleery sighed. “Go to sleep. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

Indeed, it only took Sherlock moments to nod off.

He awoke a few hours later and reached his hand across the bed for Cleery, but there were only cold sheets.

Sherlock grabbed a dressing robe and padded downstairs to the kitchen. The light was on over the small breakfast table and a man was sitting there, looking at his phone, a glass of bourbon by his elbow. He put his phone down and looked up as Sherlock walked in.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock casually opened the refrigerator and grabbed an apple before replying, “Good evening, Mr. O’Donnell.”

“Ah, please call me Brett. What brings you here?” He spoke with a clipped American accent.

“I would presume the same thing that brings you here. Your daughter,” Sherlock bit into the apple and eyed Cleery’s father. He was the same man in the portrait in the great room: handsome, stately, and just a bit grayer at the temples. Clef chin, strong jaw, blue eyes. Fit.

"And how is she, Sherlock?”

“You’ve already spoken to her this evening, you tell me. Tell me how you brought her to tears. Not happy ones, either.”

Sherlock glanced to the scrunched up tissues on the kitchen island to which Brett shrugged.

“She never liked being told what to do. Even as a little girl. She always found a way around things. I told her she would be a good lawyer. But she wanted to ride horses. At least she’s getting her advanced degree at University…or she was. Seems to me like she’s focusing on something else right now. Please, Sherlock, come sit with me. Let’s talk. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock remained standing, leaning on the fridge. “You want to bring her home, to America. Where you can keep her focused on her studies.”

“And on the U.S. Olympic equestrian team. Did you know she turned them down? I’ve pulled a few strings and apparently, that opening is still there. If she’s going to ride horses, for God’s sake, it might as well be for an Olympic team.”

Another bite of the apple. _Crunch, crunch._ Sherlock’s head was down, his eyes cast sideways at Brett.

"Of course. You wouldn’t be a good father if you weren’t looking out for Cleery.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Brett stood quickly, the chair squealing in protest as it was pushed along the floor.

“I mean, when you daughter had a drug habit, where were you? I mean, when your daughter was kidnapped and assaulted, where were you? When she was an emotional wreck? When she had no one else except John and I, where were you? And now that she has a chance to be a star on in the Olympics, where are you. _That’s_ what I mean.”

Sherlock strode past him and out the kitchen door and walked down to the stables. There was a single light on at the end of the barn. The calming smells of the barn enveloped Sherlock and he breathed them deeply – leather, hay, saddle soap. The smells of Cleery, just more intense. He listened for a moment and heard a sniffling sound in one of the empty stalls. He found Cleery sitting on a hay bale, legs bent up, head on her knees.

“Hey,” Sherlock said softly.

“Hey,” was the whispered reply.

Cleery moved so Sherlock could sit down beside her and he pulled her close, his chin resting on top of her head. Her words caught in her throat.

 "He- he wants me to go to the states. To be on the Olym-Olympics. He’s never ar-around when I need him. Do you know he sent-t me a note wh-when I was in the hospital? That b-bottle of bourbon that had from Henry. Our secret com-communication. A _n-note_. I despise him. But what if he’s right? Wh-what if I’m making a bad decision? Why should I stay here?”

 Sherlock’s heart froze. _Don’t speak. Let her talk. Don’t breathe, don’t move!_

 _“_ I’ll tell you why I w-want to stay. Because I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I don’t want to be anywhere that is far away from you. I know that. I know that I love you.” Cleery raised her head to meet Sherlock’s smiling eyes. Her face was red and blotchy from crying, hair stuck to the tears on her cheeks.

 “Y-you love me, right?” she asked.

 “Oh God, I love you, Cleery,” Sherlock answered, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I don’t want to be anywhere that is far away from you.”

 The detective pulled her close again, tears rolling down his cheeks now, too. So close now, so sweet, her form melted into his, and they just held each other. Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat, feeling the easing of that weight in his chest.

  _She said she loved me._

 Sherlock had not been waiting for the words. To him there was no contract, no reason for when she needed to say it, until she was ready to say it. He had been saying it to her for a very long time. It didn’t matter to him that she had not said it until now. He had not been waiting. The aspect of him being able to say it himself, to feel it, was astounding and new. Now the realization that she loved him, and Cleery never says anything that she does not mean, was making his chest burst with joy.

 She buried his head in his chest, fisting the lapels of his rob. His head bend down into hair, breathing her in.

 “Let’s go back in the house. It’s cold out here,” Sherlock whispered. Cleery nodded and looked up at him and smiled through the tears.

 “I never used to cry,” she rasped. “Now it seems like I do it all the time. I’m still tough, you know.”

 Sherlock kissed her gently.

 “I know you’re tough. Come on, let’s go.” He helped her up and they held hands as they walked to the house. The light in the kitchen was still on but Cleery’s father was gone.

 “Just a ghost. Like it never happened,” she said as she picked up the half-filled glass of bourbon Brett had left behind and placed it in the sink. “I don’t know when I’ll see him again.”

 “Hopefully not for a long while,” Sherlock said as they walked upstairs. Cleery held his hand and pulled him into her room. She had a look in her eyes that made Sherlock ask, “You…sure?”

 They crawled into bed again and lay face to face. Cleery pushed her body against his, filling every curve of his with her own. He wrapped his arm around her, groaning as his sore shoulder protested.

 “Don’t hurt yourself,” Cleery whispered, reaching down into his pajama bottoms. He was already hard. Her cool hand wrapped around his hot erection and pulled. He arched himself into her hand, seeking friction.

 “Cleery, Cleery,” he whispered, his voice filled with desire. “I love you, I love you.” And he thought: _Don’t be haunted, anymore. Let me take that all away._

 They kissed with the knowledge that they loved each other. The words were there, the feelings were real, the emotions high. They pulled each other close, body to body, fitting perfectly. Cleery’s hands raked through Sherlock’s hair and his hands pressed into the small of her back, pushing her against him.

 “God, Cleery, I want you,” Sherlock whispered. “I can’t help it. I just want you to know it. I don’t care if it doesn’t happen tonight or next week or next year. You just have to know that I want you.” He pushed his lips into hers, perhaps a bit too roughly, but she responded in kind, breathing hard.

 “I want you to want me,” she said. “Tonight.”

 Cleery unbuttoned his pajama top and ran her hand over his sweating chest, her thumb rubbing over his nipples, up around his shoulders and across his neck. Then, knowing that he couldn’t because of his shoulder, she unbuttoned her own top. Sherlock kissed her neck and shoulders then lowered himself down to her breasts and kissed each nipple gently. Cleery cried out, her hands tangled in his hair. Sherlock took his time, circling his tongue around the sensitive areola, then enveloping it in his mouth. He was high on her skin, her breath, her moans. He returned to her mouth, that sweet mouth, kissing her deeply, sensually, slowly. Sherlock’s hand traveled down over each breast and past a trembling tummy and into the elastic of her panties. He tugged just a bit, awaiting her permission, and when she raised her hips he pulled them off. She in turn did the same for him, and they lay skin to skin, breathing each other, whispering I love you’s between sweet kisses.

 They lay face to face again, and Cleery shifted her leg and reached down for Sherlock. She held his erection, pulling and caressing, and when Sherlock tilted his head back in pleasure she kissed his neck. He went to move on top of her but she resisted.

 “I don’t want to be…under you,” she said. 

 Sherlock was too breathless to answer but he understood and nodded. The last time Cleery had sex was her assault. Under those men. She didn’t want to be there again.

 “You…okay?” he managed to ask. She nodded and guided his erection into her. They both cried out at the feeling – that feeling of now knowing each other completely, stimulated, breathing, loving. Sherlock arched into her and she moved her leg so it was over his hip. Together they rocked, bodies fluid. He felt her fingers dig into his arm, pulling him into her deeper. Sherlock reached down between them and felt her, her warmth and softness and wetness. He moved his hand in rhythm with their bodies, watching her face as her eyes fluttered.

 “Oh, God, Sherlock,” she moaned. He felt her body go rigid then release with a quiver and a cry. He held on for a moment more then felt his own release, so intense he was lightheaded as he rode the wave of his orgasm. He said her name, over and over, loving the feel of it on his lips, a mantra, a word wrapped around his heart, the letters falling apart until they meant nothing but a world with only Sherlock and her in it.

 Cleery grabbed onto Sherlock almost frantically. “Don’t leave me,” she said. “I don’t want to be anywhere that is far away from you.”

 “I will stay,” he voice was deep and lusty. He began to whisper in her ear, a song that he had heard a long time ago, a song that had been tucked away but something in his mind opened the door in that room and he began to say the words, low and sweet: _  
_

_I'll make you happy, baby, just wait and see,_  
_For every kiss you give me I'll give you three,_  
 _Oh, since the day I saw you,_  
 _I have been waiting for you,_  
 _You know I will adore you 'til eternity…_

 _So won't you, please, be my baby,_  
_Be my little baby my one and only baby,_  
 _Say you'll be my darlin', be my baby,_  
 _Be my baby now, my one and only baby…_

 

“I love you, dear Cleery.”

“I love you, darling Sherlock.”

 

###

 

Sherlock woke at 6 a.m. the next morning, late for him. He woke with a start, uncertain if last night was a dream. But there he was in Cleery’s bed, still naked, and although he was alone, the sweet satisfaction of sex rested in his body. He turned to his side and spread his hand over the indent of Cleery’s head in her pillow.

 “I’m right here,” Cleery said softly, coming in from her balcony.  She slid into bed beside him, her hands cool from the outside air, wearing just a short silky robe. Sherlock rolled onto his back and groaned contentedly as she fit herself into the curve under his arm and against his side. She smoothed her hand over his chest, outlining the curve of every muscle with a finger.

 “Let me just…,” she whispered. Sherlock closed his eyes and lay still. She wanted to explore him, to get used to a man again. She moved her hand up around his neck, fingers on his jawline, running down his arm, back to his chest in a soothing, slow rhythm. He tried to keep his breath even and slow, but when her hand ran up the side of his body his chest hitched.

 “Ticklish…” she murmured in his ear, taking the lobe into her mouth and kissing it. She crawled onto his long and lanky frame, her legs between his slightly parted ones. Her robe had come undone and they were skin to skin. She rested her chin on her flat hands that rested on his chest. Sherlock glanced down at her face.

 “What are you looking at?” he asked.

 “You, you cheeky bastard,” she hummed. “You are a very interesting fellow, Mr. Holmes.”

 “And why is that, Ms. O’Donnell?”

 “You stuck around, all this time. Pursued me. Disguised yourself as a security guard. Found my father. Solved my case.”

 “Mmmhmm.”

 “I just hope I’m worth all that trouble.”

 Sherlock took a deep sigh that lifted Cleery up and then down. There were a few moments of silence, then Sherlock said,

 “I hope so, too.”

 Cleery laughed and went to mock slap him on the arm, but he caught her hand and brought it to his lips and kissed its palm. Then he kissed each section of each finger, his eyes connected to her shining ones. She pulled herself up on him, her legs dragging over his morning erection, and kissed him deeply. Her hands were in his hair – oh, how she loved to put her hands in his hair and how he loved her hands in his hair – and he pushed his hands down along her back, slowly so they became hot with friction.  Cleery squirmed on him, her breath quickening, and she spread her legs so they were outside of his. Sherlock bent his knees and sat up so she was sitting on his lap. Her legs wrapped around him and with a gentle thrust, he was in her. Cleery cried out in Sherlock’s mouth, his lips and hers never parting. Her breath was his. He rocked her slowly, a hand behind her head and one on her back to support her. She moved into him, two bodies now fluidly one, kissing, making sounds, biting lips, breathing hard.

 "I…need…you,” she panted. “Oh, God, Sherlock, oh God…”

 Sherlock held her as her body vibrated, clenching with force, her eyes squeezed closed, sweat running down her cheek. She pleaded for him to stop, but he kept moving her, his eyes locked on her face, her face so intense, her mouth taking great gasps until her limbs became undone and she collapsed forward on him, heaving, fingers dug into his back.

 “I’ve never, I can’t,” she gulped. “What you do…to me…Sherlock.”

 “That’s Mr. Holmes to you,” he teased. She arched into him, putting her hands low on his hips and pulled him into her. She was loose and soft and wet, and it didn’t take Sherlock but a few thrusts and he came into her, crying out her name, burying his face in her neck and kissing her shoulder with trembling lips.

 They lay there, tangled, sweaty, sticky, panting. Eventually they both dozed, waking at different times, touching the other one, falling back into sleep. It was late afternoon when Sherlock felt Cleery rise from the bed and hear her start a shower.

 Sherlock’s mind never felt so relaxed. It was a little odd, not to have a thousand thoughts running through his head all at once. Of course, there were still several hundred there, but they were not insisting on attention or interpretation. Still he knew he had a few cases to follow up on at 221B so he joined Cleery in the shower and then headed home.

 


	19. CHAPTER NINETEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John speaks to his therapist. And it's about time.

“I haven’t seen you in quite some time, Dr. Watson. What brings you here today?”

 John shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the gaze of his therapist, Dr. Ella Thompson.

 “I know there’s never an easy way to begin -,” she encouraged.

 “I have feelings for my best friend’s girlfriend,” John blurted out, then ran his hands down his face.

 “Oh, I see. This is Sherlock’s girlfriend, the one that was assaulted?”

 “Yes.”

 “And are you still having your lunches with her?”

 “For the most part, yes. About once a week or so.”

 “Hm. Do you think Sherlock knows?”

 “Who knows what Sherlock knows,” John sighed. He told Dr. Thompson about the kiss when Cleery was high in the barn and about the time he was thinking about her dress at St. Bart’s. John bit his lip and decided not to admit that when he had gone into Sherlock’s room to hang up her dress how he had treated it with reverence and had to force himself not to rub it against his cheek.

 “Do you think Cleery suspects?”

 “No. I don’t think she even remembers what she did in the barn. She really considers me a good friend and she thinks so much about Sherlock that I don’t think she gives our lunches anything more than friends. Or ever would.”

 "John, you are certain these are feelings for Cleery.”

 “What is that supposed to mean?” John turned away, his fingers tapping on the armrest.

 “You are sure these are not feelings for Sherlock. Jealously that now he is spending so much time with someone else.”

 John shook his head vigorously. “I am completely and totally sure. Any feelings I have are just for Cleery.”

 “So, what are you going to do, John?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “I think you are going to have to talk to Sherlock about this.”

 “God, absolutely not! It’s hard enough saying the words out loud to even you. Sherlock would – well, the least of what he would do is kick me out.”

 “He might surprise you. He may be very understanding. Remember your trust issues, John.”

 “Have you been here for my other sessions with you?” John asked, exasperated. “This is Sherlock Holmes we are talking about.”

 “So, what are you going to do, John?”

 “I don’t know.”


	20. CHAPTER TWENTY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both John and Sherlock find themselves getting in deeper.

**_Cleery, I have to cancel lunch this week._ **

  _Hey John! That’s too bad everything ok?_

_?_

**_Yes, sorry, everything fine just have extra shifts at surgery_ **

**** _Ok next week?_

**_Sure_ **

**_###_ **

 

_You there?_

**_Yes, always_ **

**** _John canceled lunch again with me, darling  
_

**_Odd, didn’t say anything to me but he’s not around much lately working at surgery a lot_ **

**** _Ok I’m still coming into town today to pick up my dress_

**_Yes please or I might try it on_ **

_OHHHH I’d pay to see that_

**_How much_ **

**** _Haha, be there in about 2 hours you going to be there?_

**_Yes what car_ **

**** _I’ll bring the Aston_

**_Good girl_ **

**** _I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not_

**_Me too_ **

****

###

 

John stopped at the bottom of the stairs at 221 Baker Street, certain he heard her voice. He had canceled his lunch date with her and worked all day at surgery and was beat. He didn’t want to face her, but there was nowhere else he could go. Maybe a pub for a few hours – but then the door at the top of the stairs popped open.

 “I thought I heard you down there. Come on up, John, I’ve got a case,” Sherlock was back lite by the setting sun and John had to squint to look up at him.

 “I’ve had a big day, Sherlock, I’m not sure I’m in the mood,” gruffed John.

 “Nonsense! Cleery’s here and she’s cooking dinner. Her portion size is rather – disproportioned – so there will be plenty to eat.” Sherlock turned back inside, and John trudged up the stairs, his heart in his throat. Sherlock was already back at his desk, typing furiously, brow furrowed. Cleery was in the kitchen – wobbling around on 3 inch heels while slicing some vegetables.

 “Hi, John!” she said brightly. Her hair was done up in a loose bun on the top of her head, but tendrils had loosened up and floated around her face. Her cheeks were red from exertion. Pots bubbled on the stove behind her and the sweet smell of a marinara sauce wafted from the kitchen. “How was work?”

 “Ah, fine, yes. Sorry I had to cancel our lunch again. They’ve been rather short staffed of late.”

 Cleery waved him off. “Quite alright. Sorry I’m here – I just swung by to pick up my dress but _that one_ got the idea having me participate in an experiment. So I thought I would make dinner. Can I please take these off now?” Cleery held up a foot. Sherlock checked his watch.

 “Yeeeesssss…..now.”

 Cleery came out of the kitchen and flopped in Sherlock’s chair, her feet in the air. All grace and civility, Sherlock went over and took the shoes off. He pulled one of her feet close to his face to examine the skin.

 “Ow, I don’t bend that way!” exclaimed Cleery, falling back into the seat.

 “Hmph,” Sherlock muttered. John could see he was in thinking mode and was relived. The last thing John wanted to see was the two of them being – in love. But they were not really like that. To an outsider, Cleery and Sherlock appeared more as friends. They teased each other and talked all the time when together, but there was very little public display of affection. A hand squeeze, a quick kiss goodbye, a head rested on a shoulder. But John knew there was more going on between them now. He knew they were sleeping together. It wasn’t as if Sherlock had to tell him. John could tell. When _he_ was sleeping with someone, he was the same way. A bit more amicable. A bit more dreamy. Talking less about the person they were dating. Things held a bit closer to the chest.

 And it wasn’t like Cleery had told John. He had cancelled two lunches now – so he hadn’t talked to her in almost three weeks. 

 But it couldn’t go on this way. It wasn’t right, John knew it. But to tell either one of them – John shook thoughts away.

 “Done?” Cleery asked Sherlock, who was still holding her foot. She wiggled her toes hopefully.

 “The marks on your foot do not match the victim’s,” Sherlock said to no one.

 “Is it the same type of shoe that she had?”

 “It _IS_ her shoe,” Sherlock replied. Cleery squeaked.

 “You just gave me a dead woman’s shoe to wear?! Oh my God!” Cleery ran to the bathroom, shut the door, and the men could hear the water in the tub running.

 Sherlock resumed typing, unconcerned. John walked down to the bathroom and gently knocked.

 “Do I need to do anything to help you with dinner?” he asked through the door. She told him to come in, and he was greeted with the sight of Cleery sitting on the side of the tub, jeans rolled up to her knees and her washing her feet in the water in the tub. She had dropped her hair from the top of her head and was working it into a pony tail. He closed the door behind him.

 “Dinner’s fine. Everything is on simmer. I’ve missed you. How have you been?”

 “Ah, good, good. Just busy.”

 “You’ve been avoiding me,” she said flatly, setting her steady gaze on him, chin elevated. He leaned against the sink.

 “Yes. And I’m very sorry,” John said. It was becoming very difficult to be friends to two people he could not even get a single white lie past. “I’ve just been trying to give you and Sherlock your space.”

 Cleery pointed to a towel and John handed it to her and she dried her feet. “It’s not like that. We’ve never made you feel like a third wheel. If anything, I am the odd one out. You and Sherlock know everything about each other.”

 “We just know each other…differently,” John shrugged.

 “I’m sorry if I put you in a place that made you uncomfortable,” Cleery tossed the towel on the floor. John groaned, the guilt eating away like acid in his soul.

 “Cleery, it’s…complicated,” he finally said.

 “Okay,” she tried to smile at him, but he could tell she was hurt. Really hurt.

  _Of course, she should feel hurt, she doesn’t even know what she did – but she didn’t do anything!_

 “Can you please look at me, Cleery?”

 John just about broke when she did. Her eyes were filled with tears and her face red with emotion. “I know what you are going to say,” she said.

 “You do?”

 “You don’t think Sherlock and I should be sleeping together. You think it’s too soon.” Her voice dropped to a raspy, sob-filled whisper. “And all this is going to lead to me hurting Sherlock and he’s your best friend.”

 “Oh, Cleery…,” John was at a loss. _You stupid, son of a bitch. Look what your selfishness has gone and done now._

 Cleery’s hid her face in her hands. “I know, it’s all so wrong. I don’t ever want to hurt him. I’m so afraid that I will. I love him, John, I know that now. I’m so sorry. I’ve disappointed you.”

 John fell to his knees in front of Cleery and pulled her hands gently away from her face. “Hey, hey, no. You have not disappointed me. We’re friends, Cleery. I – just want you – to be careful. Okay? And I swear I have not been avoiding you. Lunch, next week, I promise. Okay? Don’t cry. Here, here’s a tissue. I’ll check on dinner, and you wash your face and calm down. Let’s not get Sherlock upset. Okay?”

 Cleery smiled at him through the tears and sighed. “I was just saying to Sherlock the other day how I’ve never cried so much until I met you two. Now I’m just one of those boring girls who is an emotional wreck.”

 John opened the door and looked back at her. “When was that?”

 “Oh, my father unexpectantly showed up, the bastard. Got me all…,” she waved at her face. “A love-hate relationship if there ever was one.”

 John nodded and headed back out to the kitchen, where Sherlock was looking at bits of leather from the woman’s shoe under his microscope. John busied himself with setting the table and stirring the pots. Cleery came out a few minutes later and shot John a knowing smile. He gave a half-hearted grin back.

  _You are digging yourself in deeper and deeper, Watson,_ he thought.

 “Sherlock. Sherlock! I’ve made dinner. You’re going to have to move your microscope for the pasta. Sherlock!” Cleery implored.

 The detective grumbled and slid over his microscope but flashed Cleery a smile. “It smells amazing.” John had to agree that it did. Cleery had made pasta from scratch and a marinara sauce thick with fresh tomatoes, basil, and garlic. A side salad and toasted garlic bread accompanied the meal. John had to admit, although he had been apprehensive, the dinner went off well. The three of them conversed easily, and they popped a bottle of wine that John and Cleery shared.

 “What time is it?” Cleery asked when they finally began to clear the dishes.

 “Too late for you to go home,” Sherlock announced. “Especially after all that wine.”

 Cleery sighed. “I know, I can’t believe John and I drank the whole bottle. I’m always unprepared when I come into London. Once again, I don’t have clothes for tomorrow.”

 Sherlock grabbed her hand and pulled her close. “Then you should start leaving some things here, darling.”

 Cleery laughed. “Is there a charge for that?”

 “I’m sure payment can be arranged.”

 “I will be taking my red dress, however.”

 “Well, you did say you would pay to see me in it,” Sherlock replied.

 John busied himself at the sink. He could feel his ears turning a bit flushed. Cleery cleared her throat. “Great, now that we have the cross-dressing skeleton out of the closet, Sherlock, will you play for us?”

 “Cross-dresser! That’s it! Cleery – you’re a godsend!” Sherlock grasped her head in his hands and kissed her, bouncing on his toes as he did so. “The killer took the victim’s shoes and replaced them with a cheaper version. That’s why the marks on her feet did not match the marks on yours. Different shoes. Her dress was expensive – hair done, make-up perfect. The killer took her shoes and her purse. They matched of course.”

 “You’re amazing,” teased Cleery. “Now will you play?”

 “Violin?”

 “Unless there’s a baby grand you’ve been hiding around here – or a tuba - ,”

 “French horn is in the closet, drum set behind the - ,”

 “Okay, okay!” John implored. The two of them could really get going. At any other time he would have been able to brush it off, but he was tired and emotionally wrung. He sighed and said in a softer tone, “You two go ahead. I’ll finish up here.”

 “Thank you, John,” Sherlock nodded and Cleery brushed his shoulder with a hand. The couple went into the living room and Sherlock began to play. The melody was sweet, low and soft. Vibrating with emotion. John glanced in. Sherlock had his back to John, his posture perfect: head slightly tilted with his chin resting on the violin, arms at precise angles, long legs ramrodded into the floor. Cleery was in Sherlock’s chair, curled up with her hands under her chin and resting on the arm of his chair. She caught his eye and winked. John’s heart gave a flutter, but the next instant her eyes were back on Sherlock, absorbing his every movement, memorizing his every feature.

  _God, was that was love was really like?_ John scrubbed a stubborn pot harder. _When was the last time I had felt like that…or anyone had felt like that about me? Ever? Cleery could never love me. I would only be measured against him._

 Sherlock gently launched into a familiar tune. Cleery did not sing, but John knew them and whispered them fervently to himself:

  _I love how your eyes close,_  
_Whenever you kiss me._  
 _And when I'm away from you,_  
 _I love how you miss me,_  
 _I love the way you always treat me… tenderly…_  
 _But, darling, most of all,_  
 _I love how you love me._

 

He finished up and slipped out of the kitchen. Cleery had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s chair. When Sherlock saw his flatmate, he stopped playing.

 “John.”

 “Yes.”

 “What happened in the bathroom.”

 John turned to face Sherlock, who’s catlike eyes were directed at him.

 “She…she told me that she’s worried about hurting you. And that I would be mad at her if she did because you’re my friend. Have you noticed she’s a bit more fragile these days, Sherlock? She even admitted to me that she cries at the drop of the hat.”

 Sherlock’s face dropped and he glanced over his shoulder at her. He looked confused.

 “You’re sure she’s still seeing her therapist?” John continued. “She’s not just saying she is?”

 “I’m not sure.”

 “I think you should find out.”

 Sherlock nodded slowly, his face sagging. “I would be the one to mess this up, John. She’s an angel. I’m the poster child for emotional stagnation.”

 “That’s not true. Well, it used to be. She’s done a world of good for you…and you for her. You two,” John gulped. “You two are meant for each other. Just talk to her, yeah? Remember she told you once, communication is important? The girl knows what she’s talking about. Now, get her to bed. You, too. See you in the morning.”

 

###

 

Sherlock did not sleep much that night. He helped Cleery off the chair and guided her into his bed – she didn’t like to be picked up or carried. He pulled her jeans off her gently and changed her into one of his shirts to sleep in. She fell into the pillow, a smile of contentment on her lips.

 For the next few hours, Sherlock attempted to be introspective. He sat in his chair, his thought pyramid of fingers resting against his lips. It was hard. He found that he was detesting his own brain. How often he had poked fun at John and Lestrade…and everyone else’s. How they could not decipher the information that fitted tougher so perfectly for him. But they all had something he didn’t – _sentiment._

 It wasn’t a skill one could learn overnight – like Russian, for instance.

 Cleery’s personality was a straightforward one. She said what she thought or what she felt. If there was a girl that he was going to be in a relationship with, it would be her. No drama, no subtext. She, in a way, had spoiled him. Made it so he didn’t have to work too hard to understand her. But John was right. She had been crying more lately. Something had changed. What did it mean? Did he just have to ask her?

 Sherlock grunted and dropped his head in his hands. He had a few cases to work on, but found he couldn’t concentrate. For the first time and a very, very long time, he needed a fix. At the thought, Sherlock leaped from his chair. He clenched his hands and paced the room, determined not to break into his emergency supply. Yes, it was always there. Hidden so not even a drug-sniffing dog could find it.

  _No, NO._

He walked down the hallway and into his room. He undressed down to his t-shirt and boxers and slipped under the covers next to Cleery. She mumbled his name and slotted herself along his side with her arm flung across his chest. Sherlock felt the tension in his body slip away as he kissed the top of her head, breathing in that ever-present Cleery smell of leather and hay. He realized: Cleery WAS his drug. She made him better. With her, he would never need the artificial high that a pill or an injection could provide.

 Sherlock dozed for a few hours, then woke fully as the sun began to peak into his room. Cleery had shifted away from him during the night. She was still on her side, facing towards him. Sherlock turned so that he was on his side and facing her directly, too. He studied her. Cleery’s blonde hair was draped over her forehead and eyes. It was longer now, almost to her shoulders. Under the wisps he could see the beginnings of crows feet by the corners of her eyes from years of riding horses outside and squinting in the sun. These were the only imperfection he could see on her face – but they were not even that. They were true. They were right. They were perfect. They fit there like little rays of light that spread out from her eyes.

 And that ski jump nose with its constellation of freckles. Mouth open just a little bit, lips pink, chin and jawline. Then the mouth closed and a large breath was pulled in through her nose. Cleery was waking. She rubbed a hand under her nose and pushed the hair off her face. Her eyes opened a bit, then a bit more, realizing that Sherlock was watching her. He leaned in and kissed her gently and she hummed appreciatively.

 “I should get going,” she said. “I have a meeting with my new groomsman.”

 “Not yet,” Sherlock replied, tracing her jawline with kisses. She tilted her head to give him more access and he nipped at her neck, following in down to her shoulders. He brushed his lips along her collarbone, sweeping his tongue into the hollows it created. Down again to her soft breasts, he kissed one as he massaged the other with his hand. Cleery was breathing hard now, a moan escaping from deep in her throat. Sherlock ran his hand down her body, the curve of her hip going in, the curve of her thigh going out. He felt her shift her legs and brought his hand between them and into her panties to feel her. Cleery gasped, her hands now in Sherlock’s hair, and spread her legs further. He played with her, listening to her reactions with each touch, each stroke, until he felt her body move with his hand. She pulled his head up to hers, only wanting to kiss him, her lips pressed to his, her groans of pleasure echoing inside his mouth. He could read her body so well now – the arch of her back, her body stiffening before release, the shuddering and open mouth search for air, how she pulled him close as she climaxed, only wanting him closer than he already was to her. How she clenched at him as if he would abandon her in this moment, her hands digging into his arms, telling him to stay, pleading with her voice and her body. Then she fell back, limbs loose, eyes adoring at him, the sweet pink flush of pleasure in her cheeks.

 “Good morning,” Sherlock said.

 “Good morning.” she nestled in close to him. “Do you…?”

 “No, no. It’s 5 a.m. I’m getting up. You should sleep some more.”

 “It’s all right?” her words slurring already. Sherlock waited until she took a few deep breaths, confirming her nod back to sleep, and slipped out of bed. He felt a sense of clarity that had evaded him last night. He could handle this. Cleery and he were in this together. Whatever she was feeling or going through now, he would handle with her. They would talk. It was going to be all right. But for now, he had to find a cross-dressing murderer with a stellar sense of fashion.

 


	21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cleery was usually not one to be afraid of blood. She had a strong stomach and a clear mind in emergencies. But there was so much blood right now, and it was coming out of John, out of the gunshot wound in his chest. The gash in his head had stopped bleeding, and she had been applying pressure to his chest like he had told her to before he passed out. As far as she could tell, his pulse was weakening. She glanced at his pale face, drawn in pain and took a slow, deep breath to remain calm.

 “It’s time to go,” the man said as he nudged Cleery with his foot. She turned and glared up at him. He was tall and blonde, wide shouldered but slim in the hips. A scar bisected his upper lip and ran towards his left cheek. He was dressed in black pants, black shirt, and even a black tie.

 “I’m not leaving him like this – he’ll die,” she snarled.

 “His own fault for tryin’ to be a hero.”

 “You really want his death on your hands?” Cleery asked. The man yanked Cleery to her feet and laughed.

 “Nah, looks like it’s on yours, sweetheart,” he laughed. Indeed, Cleery’s hands, the front of her shirt, and the knees of her jeans where she had knelt next to John were crimson.

 “Okay, okay, please just let me change. These clothes -,” she closed her eyes and pretended like she was going to be sick. The man shoved her away.

 “Change, then. Let’s go. And no tricks.”

 Cleery nodded and the man followed her into John’s room where she retrieved the shirt and jeans she had previously borrowed – and thankfully washed and brought back. The man watched her change through the open door. Carefully, Cleery placed the clean shirt over John’s phone which was resting on the nightstand next to his bed. As she changed, she slipped it into the pocket of her fresh jeans. Cleery moved as slowly as she could, hands shaking, hoping that Sherlock would be returning home soon. As soon as she was dressed, the man grabbed her and brought her back downstairs.

 Cleery’s phone, sitting next to Sherlock’s laptop, began to ring. The man holding her pressed the muzzle of the gun to her temple.

 “It’s your boyfriend. Answer it real nice, put it on speaker. No tricks, or John gets another bullet,” he thrust the phone into her hand. She nodded and answered with what she hoped was a confident sounding, “Hello?”

 “Hello, Cleery darling. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be a bit longer at the morgue than I anticipated.”

 Cleery closed her eyes and swallowed hard, the pistol against her temple nudging her to speak.

 “Yes, of course. I’ll…be leaving soon.”

 “Fine. What is John up to?”

 Cleery glanced sideways at her capture. She could see the still body of Sherlock’s flat mate, spread eagle on the floor, the pool of blood surrounding him.

 “He’s…. he’s just laying around,” she replied.

 “Ah.”  There was a long pause. Cleery wanted to scream into the phone, _Help, please help and come help me!_ but Sherlock eventually said, “See you later?”

 “Sure. See you later.”

  _Click._

“Well done,” the man chuckled, taking her phone and throwing it to the floor. “Now shoes, and we’ll be on our way.”

 Cleery turned to face him, eyes blazing. “I told you I’m not leaving him-,”

The man whipped his gun against the side of her head. Cleery fell to the floor, seeing stars. “This is not a negotiation,” he said. “Now get your damn shoes on, sweetheart.”

 Cleery swallowed hard and crawled over to her shoes. Even on her hands and knees, she felt dizzy from the swipe to her head. But more than that, she was angry. So very, very angry. Her heart pounded so hard it jerked her hands with every beat as she pulled on her sneakers. There was a high whining in her head, making her brain feel as if it were twisting in a hurricane.

 She grabbed a nearby small table and swung it hard into the man’s shins. He hollered as it shattered against his legs and stumbled for a moment, but then grabbed her by the back of the shirt and shook her violently.

 “If I didn’t need you alive, I’d kill you right here,” he snarled. Cleery began to struggle, but the gun in the man’s hand calmly pointed at John’s figure.

 “Your choice, sweetheart,” he said and Cleery’s arms drooped in surrender, and he dragged her down the stairs into a waiting car.

 ###

“Shut up,” Sherlock mumbled as he bent in closer to inspect the body. He was at the morgue at St. Bart’s.

 His phone persisted with another text buzz.

 “You going to answer that?” Molly asked.

 “Shut UP. Eh, not you, Molly. Though it does help me when you don’t speak.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed again.

 “Bloody -,” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the text message. “I – I’ve got to go. Now.”

 “Everything alright?” Molly asked, but he was out the door, the tail end of his coat barely making it through the door before it shut.

 In the cab, he kept looking at the text messages from Cleery:

  ** _hhlp_**

**_999_ **

**_fyghjjm_ **

He had the cab drop him off a block away from 221 Baker Street. He sidled up to the door and drew his gun. He checked on Mrs. Hudson, but her flat was undisturbed and she was not home. Slowly he made his way up to B, noting the door was ajar. Everything was quiet. Except…a queer rattling sound. Sherlock knew what that was. He burst into the flat, his heart in his throat. Sherlock found John on the floor between their two chairs, his shirt was soaked with blood, his breath making that wet, desperate rattling sound. In his hand was Cleery’s phone.

 “JOHN!” Sherlock pulled the man into his arms and shook him. “John, stay with me! John!”

 Sherlock was rewarded with a faint smile on the man’s face. “Not…going….anywhere,” he rasped. Sherlock called emergency and then Lestrade, balancing his cell phone between his shoulder and his cheek while holding John and applying pressure to his chest wound. It was then that a slow realization crept over him that Sherlock realized why Cleery’s conversation on the phone earlier had seemed so odd.

  _Yes, of course. I’ll…be leaving soon…_

  _He’s….he’s just laying around…_

And their usual sign off, _I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not,_ was missing.

Sherlock felt a bolt of fear shoot through him and he suddenly felt like he could not take a deep enough breathe to get oxygen to his brain. Stars appeared before his eyes, but he squeezed them closed and willed air into his lungs.  

 “I’m bloody obtuse,” Sherlock said. “John, listen now. After my conversation with Cleery, who ever had her must have tossed her phone on the ground. You crawled to it and texted me. So where is your phone?” Sherlock searched his friend’s pockets quickly, but it was absent.

 “Cl…eery….,”

 “Don’t talk, John, save your strength.”

 “Man…”

 It was then that his phone buzzed again with a text. From John’s phone.

  ** _We’d 437_**

Sherlock stared at it, brow furrowing. Then he texted Mycroft:

  ** _I need all surveillance for a vehicle with license plate WED 437. ASAP._**

**** _I’m always here when you need me, brother mine._

And to Mycroft’s credit, several video attachments began to arrive to Sherlock’s phone. He scrolled through them quickly, following the path of the car as it arrived at 221B Baker Street. His gasped out loud as the footage of Cleery being forced into the car. His viewing was interrupted by a text from his brother:

  _To save you the trouble, I can tell you the car ends up in Burberry. I’ve sent a car. Good luck._

 “John, listen here. Cleery has your phone. She texted me the license plate number of the car that took her. She’s good, isn’t she. Now look – it says “we’d” – but that’s just the phone autocorrecting. It’s actually _W-E-D_. Obviously. Mycroft sent me the GPS coordinates. I’m going to find her,” Sherlock kept talking to the man, as it seemed an eternity until emergency and Lestrade arrived.

 “Any idea of who did this?” Lestrade asked him. “Or what they were after?”

 “No,” Sherlock answered. As far as he knew, only he and John knew that Cleery was staying at the flat. Whoever shot John was after her, Sherlock was certain of that. He alone would find her and deal with them.  As Sherlock strode from the flat, Lestrade asked him if he wanted a ride to the hospital. Sherlock paused.

 “I…I’m afraid I have something else to take care of first.”

 Lestrade put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let me help. Please.”

 Sherlock shook his head. “They’ve got Cleery,” he said. “I’ve got to handle this on my own.”

 “Those were Cleery’s clothes in John’s room, weren’t they. Whoever did this has got her.”

 “And who ever has got her wants her father. Cleery’s father is a secret agent. And a double one. American and British. Playing both sides and now he finally got caught. Oh, the wheels of justice grind very slowly, but they grind ever so fine.”

 “So why kidnap Cleery?”

 Sherlock turned to Lestrade with a look of disdain. “What is the best weapon to use against a person, George?”

 “Greg.”

 “What?”

 “Never mind. The best weapon to use -,”

 “Your friends. Your family. Whomever is the closest. To get Cleery’s father, they get Cleery first. She’s the bait. He’ll come. He has to.”

 Greg shook his head.

 “What?” Sherlock asked sharply.

 “Sherlock, you dunce. You are the closest person to Cleery right now. Are you sure that whoever took Cleery doesn’t want _you_?” 

 “Who would want me? And how would anyone know about – that she is -,” Sherlock sputtered angrily. Greg held his hands up in surrender.

 “Just think about it,” Lestrade responded. “And I know I cannot convince you to let me help you. Just don’t do anything stupid. I’m here, and I’ll be on standby.”

 Sherlock nodded and left the detective inspector and out to the waiting car Mycroft had sent.

  _Friends. I have friends._

Lestrade was genuine in saying he would help. There were others that would help, too. The world had not opened up to Sherlock, but rather, Sherlock had opened up to the world. It had always been waiting for him to offer its embrace. And he had Cleery to thank. He had people that cared about him – and her – and _them_. It made his head swim a bit to think about it in the few seconds it took him to race down the stairs and accept the keys from the driver. He took a deep breath, glanced at the mapping program on his phone, and began to drive.

 It took him over two hours to get to the location, an abandoned airfield with a stricken-looking hanger set in the center of several derelict runways. He parked about 50 meters away from the hanger, then left the car and walked to the hanger. Lights began to turn on inside the building and he squinted at the sudden brightness. He strode into the building, feeling the cool after-sunset breeze trickle through the building. Loose metal panels clanged against their brothers. The bare lightbulbs hung precariously from the high ceiling, swaying with the breeze, casting moving shadows.

 A man stepped out of the shadows, holding Cleery by one arm and pressing a gun against her head. Sherlock performed a quick visual of Cleery. Though she had a blossoming black eye and a trickle of blood down the side of her face from a cut over her eyebrow, her eyes were bright and steady. Her face was as if it were set in stone, her lips a thin pressed line. She was angry. Very, very angry.

 Her eyes softened for a moment at the sight of him, but the man holding her gave her a rough shake. Sherlock’s heartbeat quickened with angry adrenaline. Cleery was hurt, was suffering, because of him. He wanted to tear the throat out of this man. Then he noted the blood stains around the cuticles of Cleery’s nails where a quick wash had not rinsed away John’s blood.

  _She helped him after he had been shot. She didn’t want to leave him. Oh, Cleery._

 “Behave, sweetheart. I’m not done with you yet,” the man said. “Ah, Sherlock Holmes. I knew you would come. What would you call it? _Predictable_.” The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up to above his elbows, revealing bulging triceps.

  _American. Expert marksman. Steroid user, thus short-tempered. Former Special Forces, now turned Intelligence. Smart. Thinks himself a bit too smart._

 “Who are you?”

 “Well, you don’t really need to know who I am, Mr. Holmes. Let’s just make up a name, shall we? How about you call me ‘John’. Oh, I’m sorry, that probably hits a little too close to home. Joe, then. Call me Joe.”

 “G.I. Joe,” Sherlock said flatly, grasping his hands behind his back and pacing slowly.

 “Yes, that’s true. I am an American. And it seems like Miss O’Donnell here has some American ties as well.”

 “Why am I here?” Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving ‘Joe’s’ face.

 “Well, if you are half as good as Brett says you are, you should already know.”

 “And how is Mr. O’Donnell?”

 “Dead,” Joe replied with a smirk.

 “ _NO_!” Cleery screamed. She tried to twist her way out of the man’s grasp and turned on him, hitting him with hard fists to his chest. “ _Nononono_!”

 Joe tossed her like a doll onto the floor and pointed his gun at her. “I told you to behave! Now listen, Mr. Holmes, here’s the deal. I’m replacing Brett. He was playing one side against the other, for years. I knew. I watched him, and I learned. And when he slipped up, just enough, I saw my chance. Now you’re going to be on my team, Mr. Holmes. Your brother is sure to be an excellent source of intelligence, and when you find out something good, you’re going to give that information to me. Do this, and you can have your sweetheart back and she’ll stay alive. Reveal to anyone this deal, and she’s dead. I’ll find her.  You can’t hide her from me. I know you’ll want to keep her close, anyway. You two make for the cutest little lovebirds.”

 Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath. His chest was clenching at the thought of this scum hurting Cleery, killing her father, making these demands. _Time to think quick._

 “Well, if you had any kind of conversation with Mr. O’Donnell at all, you would already know I am already a player in this game. What better way to exchange information than to pretend to date Brett’s daughter? It certainly made my presence in her house a bit more innocent looking. I gave plenty of information to him. You see, as long as I gave him what he wanted, he let me have _her_. And Cleery, she just never knew.”

 “That’s not true!” Joe sneered.

 “Sometimes the people closest to you are the easiest to fool,” Sherlock nodded towards Cleery, whose tearful face turned towards him. “I’m sure, Joe, that you know of at least one late night meeting between Brett and I. There were many more, I can assure you. We are very, very good, you see. Or,” Sherlock tilted his head and gave Joe a scalding once-up-and-once-down-look, “perhaps that steroid-addled brain of yours does not allow for such deep thoughts.”

 Joe took two giant steps towards Sherlock, who kept his face calm, his hands clasped behind his back.

 “You don’t expect me to believe that your relationship with this girl is not real. I’m not falling for that, not for a minute. Dumb old trick. You came here for her.” Joe narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

 “I came because I was concerned that Brett would be here, and do something dumb. We may have been working together, but did not mean that I trusted him. I threatened him with harm to his little – ah, ‘sweetheart’ as well. A little protection goes a long, long way.”

 Joe slowly backed towards where Cleery was sitting on the ground. “So if Brett’s dead, then you don’t need her.” He waved his gun menacingly at her despondent form.

 “True. But certainly, two deaths in the same family would arouse suspicion.”

 “No one will ever find Brett’s body. And remember, isn’t the family story that he’s already dead?”

 “How about your son?” Sherlock ventured. Joe’s head snapped to the detective.

 “What about him?”

  _Thank you for confirming that, idiot._

 “Well, I certainly cannot date him, but how about we use him as my collateral. His life for hers. You leave her be, I’ll leave him be. And we can get on with doing our jobs.”

 “You’re just jerking me. You DO care for this one!” Joe strode towards Sherlock again, standing toe to toe with the detective, waving his gun. 

 “I think she’s sustained enough heartache for one night. Losing her boyfriend and her father, well, let’s just let her live with the misery.”

 " _Misery_ ,” Cleery said, behind the men. They turned to her in surprise, almost forgetting her presence in their verbal banter. Cleery had risen to her feet, pointing a gun at Joe. The one she had taken with her to the closet, the one she had tucked inside her panties when she changed. “You bastard, you don’t know what misery is.”

 She pulled the trigger, and a burst of red exploded from Joe’s bicep. He snarled and shot at Cleery just before Sherlock leapt with a force that flew him the distance of several yards and knocked Joe to the ground. They wrestled for a moment, fighting over the gun, grappling, and as both men finally rose to their feet it was Sherlock that had the weapon. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see Cleery was on the ground. She struggled to prop herself up on her elbows, blood coating the right side of her head.

 Sherlock tried not to panic. Joe had gotten off that one shot before Sherlock took him to the ground, and it had hit Cleery. Where and how bad, he could not detect. He kept his gun trained on Joe as Cleery grunted and rose slowly to her feet and raised her gun.

 Joe raised his hands and sneered, his eyes darting between them. Blood dripped from his elbow but he didn’t acknowledge the injury.

 “This isn’t - ,” he began, but Cleery fired, this time hitting him in the chest.

 “NO!” Sherlock cried.

  _Bang._

Cleery shot Joe again and again, red circles darkening his black shirt, his body jerking with every impact.

_Bang._

_Bang._  Joe’s body dropped to the floor and Cleery walked to it, emptying the gun.

_Bang._

_Bang._

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

Cleery tossed the gun to the floor, her chest rising and falling with great pants of breath. Sherlock tucked his gun away and approached her slowly, his hands extended. “Cleery, darling. It’s okay, it’s all right.” She looked at him, eyes wide and wild. Blood was now soaking the shoulder of her shirt where it dripped from the side of her head.

 “I – I didn’t know – wh-what – he was going – to do –to – to me,” she said. Sherlock gently pulled her close.  She was shaking and soaked with sweat, her body rigid with fear. There was silence as Sherlock and Cleery stared at Joe’s still body. Blood began to stain the cracked pavement surrounding him.

 “Not sure why I even came,” Mycroft said, walking up behind Sherlock.

 “He’s dead,” Sherlock responded flatly.

 “Yes, that’s true. Pity that we couldn’t have taken him alive. All clear, boys, come on in. Time for clean-up.” Mycroft gestured to his agents, waiting in the shadows. Three of them began to collect Joe’s body, and another brought in a medical kit and began to tend to Cleery. She let the man lead her, robot-like, and Sherlock watched as the man examined the side of her head. It appeared that the bullet had grazed her ear, missing a kill shot by mere millimeters. Cleery gave no indication that she was in any pain, or any emotion, for that matter. She sat, glassy-eyed, staring at nothing.

 Mycroft was telling his brother that a helicopter was on the way.

 “Not now,” Sherlock interrupted him, and walked over to the agent that was aiding Cleery. “I think she’ll need something for the pain,” he said, and held out his hand. “And for the shock. Give it here.” 

 The agent, confused, glanced at Mycroft, who nodded his curt approval, and the medic handed Sherlock a small syringe. The detective knelt in front of Cleery, who finally blinked and looked at him.

 “Cleery,” Sherlock whispered. “It’s all right now. Here, give me your arm. Little pinch. There you go, this will relax you. Just breathe. Close your eyes. There, I’ve got you. Nice and relaxed. Good girl.” It took just a few moments for Cleery to fall into Sherlock’s arms, unconscious. He held her in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, her bloodied ear bandaged, her limbs long and loose. He kissed her forehead, breathing her in.

 “I am so sorry,” he whispered so only she could hear.

 The helicopter landed outside and Sherlock and Cleery were loaded in. Before the doors were shut and locked, Sherlock caught Mycroft’s eye from across the runway and nodded. His brother returned the nod and then motioned for the helicopter to go.

 


	22. CHAPTER 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout hits hard.

Sherlock grimaced as he saw that his hand was shaking. At least he was drinking his tea from a paper cup, not a porcelain one that could be heard rattling on its saucer. This little shimmy would be gone in another day, he was sure. It was just his body trying to come down from the adrenaline of the day.

He sat back in the uncomfortable chair in Cleery’s empty hospital room and took a sip of the flavorless brew. What Sherlock would not give for a fresh pot from in own flat prepared by Mrs. Hudson. But he wouldn’t want her to see his hand shake. She would understand, of course, but Sherlock, still, would not want her to see it.

Cleery was still in surgery, which was turning out to be more cosmetic, as the bullet had blasted away most of her right ear. She would be out soon, and when she woke, Sherlock already had a plan to begin to wean her off the pain medication that was now flooding her system.

He took another sip of the tea, then disgusted with the fact that each sip reminded him of his shaky hand, left the room and deposited it into the trash by the nurses’ station. He trudged down the long corridor and took the elevator up two floors to check on John.

 _What does not kill you makes you stronger_ , Cleery had once said to Sherlock.

_What does not kill you makes you stronger._

Such an odd expression. And not always true. What had almost killed John was making him weak, and in fact, may end up killing him. A bullet. A metal projectile fired into his flesh, puncturing his skin, his chest wall, his lung. Allowing blood and air to enter his chest cavity where there should have been none. A hard smack to the side of his head, producing a blood clot in his brain. His dear friend had already undergone two surgeries. Sherlock entered John’s room and stood, staring at John’s chest, crisscrossed with wires, willing it to rise and fall, and rise again.

“Can’t do that all night, you know,” Molly said from behind him. 

“Do what,” Sherlock said, not turning around.

“Be on your feet all night in here. Go get some rest, Sherlock. I’ll keep watch on him and Cleery.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Molly and gave her the faintest of smiles. “Thank you, Molly. But no. These are my friends as they are yours. We can keep watch together.”

Molly stepped next to Sherlock and held his hand. “It’s going to be all right. They are both strong and stubborn. Now, come on, tell me all about it. I know you want to talk it out. Every detail, as if I were there.”

The detective nodded in response and Molly pulled him to two chairs next to John’s bed. Sherlock recounted every detail, going over everything in his mind. He had to halt his recitation several times as the daylight came, because so did the visitors. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Sally, Donovan, even a parade of grateful clients. John lay still, monitors beeping, as folks came to say hello and squeeze his hand.

When a nurse notified Sherlock that Cleery was out of surgery, he gave a grateful smile to Molly and raced down two floors to see her. At the door, he paused with his hand raised upon it. It still trembled slightly.

_Be strong, Sherlock. For her._

He pushed the door and walked in. A nurse was adjusting the monitors and whispered that Cleery would be waking up shortly. Sherlock sat by the bed and studied her. The fingers of a deep purple bruise had crept across the left side of her face, onto her cheek and circling her eye, where black x’s of stitching marked a gash. Bandages wrapped all the way around her head to hold other bandages in place over her damaged ear. Her blonde hair had been smoothed back from her face. Sherlock laced his fingers through hers, biting his lower lip.

 _This is my fault,_ he thought. _How could I become so oblivious to the danger she could be in?_

“I will always protect you,” he whispered aloud. At the sound, Cleery’s blue eyes fluttered open. She gave him a small smile of reassurance.

“I’m here,” he said, and felt her fingers tighten around his.

“Head hurts,” she groaned.

“You got a bullet through the ear, darling. You are going to be okay.”

“No, no I’m not. He killed my father. I killed him,” she said, covering her face as great silent sobs wracked her body. He could only hold her hand, his heart breaking for her misery.

“I am so sorry,” kissing her head and whispering reassurances to her. He brushed the hair off her swollen face and told her to sleep, and she gratefully closed her eyes. Sherlock sat for a long time, absorbing the sheltered silence of the room.

 _Are we doomed?_ He thought, watching her sleep. _Certainly, we will never have a normal relationship, but will we have peace? Time together without mishaps – kidnappings, shootings? And what about John? How much was he attracted to my Cleery? My Cleery. She is mine. Mine to care for and protect._

There was a soft knock at the door and Mycroft entered, a shoebox-sized box under his arm. Sherlock wearily rose to his feet to greet his brother.

“Have you de-briefed her yet?” Mycroft asked.

“Keep your voice down, she’s sleeping. And, no. She shot a man and lost her father. These things take time.”

“Time isn’t something we really have right now. If we could’ve taken Joe alive, we would have more information on our security breaches. Now we’re scrambling.”

“You would not have known about the breach if Joe hadn’t alerted us to his presence in the first place,” Cleery said, slowly opening her eyes.

“We knew your father was a bit rouge, but we didn’t know other agents knew,” Mycroft snarled. “Here I thought he was just one bad apple, but he infected the whole lot.”

“That’s enough,” Sherlock said, a quiet anger growing in his voice. Mycroft knew he had gone too far. He nodded his head and turned to leave, but turned back around and handed Sherlock the box under his arm.

“Fifty-seven. Fifty-seven of these boxes arrived at your residence this morning, Ms. O’Donnell. I suspect you realize what they are. Sherlock, I will speak with you later,” and he took his leave.

Cleery accepted the box from Sherlock and with shaking hands opened it, revealing the bottle of bourbon inside.

“My father is truly gone, Sherlock. And he knew it was coming. This is his final message to me.”

“I am truly so very sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

“Thank you. Open a bottle and please, tell me, how is John.”

Sherlock relayed as much information as he knew and filled two plastic cups with bourbon.

“To your father,” said Sherlock, and they drank.

“To John,” said Cleery, and they drank.

“To you,” they said simultaneously, smiling, and drank.

“Now I need you to tell me what happened,” Sherlock said.

Cleery rested her cup in her lap and stared at it. “I got up just a little bit after you left. I got dressed and just sat for a moment with John to have tea. He was going to be on his way out, but he saw that I was up and decided to stay. He’d have left if he didn’t see me there. But we had tea and a talk by the fire, and then he buzzed someone up, figuring it was a client. And that man came bursting in,” Cleery closed her eyes.

 

_John and Cleery jumped to their feet, John tucking her behind him and holding his hands out defensively._

_“I want the girl, Dr. Watson. Give her to me and we’ll leave you out of this,” the intruder said._

_“Turn right back around, guy. That’s not going to happen!” John yelled._

_“Is this my father’s doing?” Cleery shouted, fury in her voice. “You can tell him if he wants me to come to America, he’s going to come and get me himself!”_

_“Come on Clarissa, or your friend here is going to get hurt! I’m not going to say it again!” the man said. Cleery glanced down at John’s waistband – his handgun was tucked into the small of his back in a leather holster. Without a further thought, Cleery pulled it out of the holster and aimed it at the man over John’s shoulder._

_“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said quietly. The man chuckled._

_“Oh, I heard you were a feisty one, but I had no idea. But I think I’m a better shot than you. I think I can shoot John here, before you can even pull the trigger. Would you like to bet?”_

_“Listen, let’s all just put the guns down,” John implored._

_“Count of five! Who will shoot first?” the man taunted._

_“I don’t want to shoot you! Please just go away!” Cleery screamed._

_“One!”_

_“Cleery, put the gun down,” John said._

_“Two!”_

_“Okay, I’ll just go with him, John!”_

_“Three!”_

_“Like hell you will!” John leapt at the man and they fell to the floor, grappling, and John yelled for Cleery to run. The intruder smacked his gun against the side of John’s head with all his power and John fell to the ground, limp as a rag. Cleery turned and scrambled into Sherlock’s room, locking the door and diving into the closet, knees drawn tightly to her chest. It was then she realized she still had the gun in her hand and she quickly tucked it into her pants. She pulled clothes down from the hangers above her, hiding under them, her body shaking with the adrenaline that coursed through her body. The closet was completely and totally dark._

Sherlock will come for me. I know he will.

_“Clarissa, I want you to come out,” the man said. “John is still alive. If you don’t come out, I’ll shoot him. Let’s see, we were at three, right?”_

_Cleery bit the heel of her hand to keep from screaming. What did this man want with her? What was he going to do with her? Put her in a van? Bring her to a warehouse? A low moan escaped her and she rocked back and forth, her knees up under her chin. White spots appeared in front of her eyes in the darkness and her head wanted to explode._

_“Four!”_

_“Wait!” Cleery screamed and frantically tried to leave the closet, but the clothing had ensnared her._

_“Five!” and a shot rang out._

“Stop,” Sherlock said. He stood up and paced, his hands on his head. Cleery was unable to place the look on his face to any emotion, as his face was blank and his eyes unfocused. She waited, miserably staring at the empty plastic cup in her hand. Sherlock filled it and sat back down, nodding for her to continue.

 

_Cleery fought the clothes that entangled her and crawled out of the closet, bile rising in her throat. “He d-didn’t shoot J-John,” she whispered hoarsely. “No, no, no.” The bedroom door sprang open as the intruder kicked it in._

_“You should have listened, sweetheart,” he said. Cleery rushed by him to find John on the floor._

_“Oh, God, John, I’m so sorry, it was all my fault – John, John!” she pressed her hands to his chest where the blood flowed. John opened his eyes and grasped her wrists._

_“Pressure, as…hard…as you can,” he rasped._

 

“I tried not to leave, but…,” she gestured to the bruise on her head. “I managed to get John’s cell phone into my pocket when I changed, and I think John ended up with mine after it got tossed on the floor. And you know the rest.”

The two sat in silence for several moments, until Cleery declared, “I was so afraid. And angry.”

Sherlock grasped her hand, not speaking, but looking at her in a way that encouraged her to keep talking.

“I’ve never shot someone before,” she said. “I thought it would make me feel better. I thought the anger I felt would go away when I pulled that trigger. The feeling of helplessness, of someone having control over me made me out of my mind with rage. All I could think of was being back in that warehouse…and going through all that again.”

"I never will let that happen.”

Cleery nodded and breathed deeply.

“Cleery, you didn’t believe a word I said to that horrible man.”

“Of course not.”

“Good girl.”

“Sherlock, I want you to go home,” Cleery said, her chin raised. “Go home where it’s quiet and you can have a hot shower and some real tea, instead of the crap they serve here.”

“I don’t want -,” he began, feeling crushed.

“This is more, emotionally, than I think you’ve ever handled. Take some time to decompress.”

Sherlock stared at her. Here Cleery had just gotten kidnapped, shot, shot a man, lost her father, and was concerned for _his_ well-being.

“It’s not that I don’t want you here. But I’m feeling a bit mixed up, and I don’t want you to be the brunt of it right now. I need some time. Can you understand that?” 

Sherlock nodded. She was right. Last night – or was it the night before? – he had been thinking of how he and Cleery would be fine. How he would talk to her. How he was, in fact, taking another step in the right direction of a solid relationship, an aspect of his life that a brief time ago he found to be so foreign.  Now he just felt shaken. Completely emotionally overwhelmed, like he had taken four steps back. Maybe it was best to give her space, and come back renewed, together. He kissed Cleery good-night and wearily went home to 221B.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a very, very big mistake.
> 
> *** Super special thanks to kellyjelly - I was about to give up on this story but your ridiculously kind words kept me going! Thank you!!!

“John? John, its Cleery. John, open your eyes, okay? The doctors say you should be awake.”

“Claris…sa…,”

“Yes, excellent job, John! Come on, now, wake up! Let me see those pretty eyes,” Cleery encouraged, squeezing John’s hand. It was the next day, and Cleery’s bandages had been removed to a small patch over her healing ear, but the bruising on her face was still deep hues of purples and blues.

“I…love you,” he mumbled.

Cleery smiled. “Yes, I love you, too. How about something to eat?”

John’s eyes fluttered and he looked at her bruised face. “You okay?”

Her face twisted into a pain-filled smile. “Yes, I’m fine. Everything is going to be okay.”

“What happened?”

Cleery squeezed John’s hand again. “I’ll fill you in later.”

“You’re – you’re hurt,” John’s eyes filled with concern.

“I’m okay, really. Just a bit of a bump on the head, John. Please don’t worry, you’ve got a bit of healing yourself to do.”

“That man -,”

“He’s dead.”

John stared at the ceiling intently, his chin set tight.

“I’m so sorry, John,” Cleery burst out. “This is all my fault. That morning, you were on your way out. It was only because you saw me there in the flat that you stayed. You fought that man for me, so I could run and hide. And when I did, he shot you. I’m sorry, John.”

“No, it’s all right.”

“I’ll let you rest,” she said miserably and began to get up, but John tightened the grip on her hand.

“Cleery, I said it’s all right. Please, believe me when I say it’s not your fault.” She sat back down slowly, realizing John was now looking at her. Even through the haze of the pain medications, his gaze was intent. Those pretty eyes. John was a very handsome man with a distinct carriage and demeanor from his military days that made one notice him. He was a solid man, a man that held your gaze for a long time where Sherlock’s brain was always working too hard to do so. A strong silent type. He pulled her hand, and Cleery had to let her body tilt forward towards him. John’s other hand came up behind Cleery’s head and he pulled her in, close to him, and kissed her. She was too surprised to stop him. His lips were not as soft as she expected – as she was expecting the feel of Sherlock’s cupid bow lips. While Sherlock was tender and hesitant, John was firm and confident. His fingers wound through her hair and his lips parted, but Cleery ducked her head and broke the kiss.

“I’m sorry, John, we can’t. Sherlock -,” she said, pulling herself back into a sitting upright position.

“Yes?”

“He said he is coming to visit-.”

“And I’m heeeerrrrrreee!” Sherlock cheerily sang, entering the room. He gave her a broad smile. _I miss you,_ his eyes said to her.  His cheeks, pink from the cold, were prominent above his coat’s high collar, and he was in a gleeful state, his presence burning a brand of guilt into her heart for what had just happened.

“Sherlock!”

“John,” Sherlock gave his dear friend a wide smile. “How are you feeling?”

John shifted in the bed, wincing at the pain in his heavily-bandaged chest. “I’ll manage.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and shook his head, clucking. “You two need to get healed and on your feet again. This is one broken-down lot.”

“That’s what we get for knowing you,” John chuckled. “I’ll be on my feet in no time, don’t you worry.”

“Hurry up, I’ve got some good cases brewing. Lestrade, once again, is way out of his league and begging for our help.”

Cleery rose to her feet, staring at the ground. “Why don’t you two get caught up, I’ll be right back.”

“You’ll come back?” John asked, but she was already out the door. Sherlock followed her, racing in front of her and putting his hands on her shoulders and seeking her eyes intently.

“What’s wrong,” he said. Cleery tried to turn away, but Sherlock held her firmly.

“Sherlock – he - he kissed me.”

The detective dropped his hands from her shoulders and Cleery watched with trepidation as Sherlock went from confusion to disappointment to anger in a heartbeat.  

“You may be too imperceptive to realize, but John’s been in love with you all along,” Sherlock snapped, eyes blazing. “I’ve seen him looking at you. He’s done things -,”

“Imperceptive? _Imperceptive?_ ” Cleery countered.

“This wasn’t the first time you and John have kissed,” Sherlock hissed.

“That other kiss was nothing! Oh, God, Sherlock!” Cleery realized that he had tricked her, but there was still shock on his face. He may have suspected, but now she had just confirmed it. “It was after you came to my house and was asking me about my father, I nearly overdosed. I took a bunch of pills. I was high, Sherlock, so incredibly high. And I kissed John. It was stupid. I was so bloody pissed off at you! It doesn’t even matter. _It didn’t mean anything_.”

“ _Of course_ it meant something, otherwise it would not have happened.”

“Perhaps we can discuss this later,” Cleery suggested, feeling the weight of the hallway’s occupant’s eyes upon them.

“I’m not sure there is anything more to discuss.”

“Let me guess. You are going to turn tail and run. Well, go ahead. It’s what I’ve come to expect of you, Sherlock. When the going gets tough, Sherlock gets going,” Cleery was shaking so hard she felt her teeth rattle together. To her surprise, however, he dropped his head and his shoulders sagged.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I know I’m just terrible at this sort of thing -,”

“Sherlock, forgiving is easy. Forgetting is the hard part. There’s no manual for any of this. If you have the impression that I know what the hell I’m doing, then you are, oh, I don’t know, _imperceptive_.” Sherlock winced. “I know it’s hard, but dammit, at least try not leave John and I when we need you the most. Now, my head hurts, and I am going to go lay down.” Cleery walked passed Sherlock and into her room. The thin mattress of the hospital bed was hardly comforting and she tossed and turned, her head filled with thoughts.

John. How different he was from Sherlock. She knew that he had a long string of girlfriends and was more experienced sexually than his flat mate. He would be the kind to take charge in the bedroom where with Sherlock it was more of a shared experience. Which did she prefer? If she had to choose between the two for that aspect, which would she pick? Would she end up sleeping with John?

Cleery rubbed her head to shake these thoughts. Sherlock was the man she loved, that only man she had ever loved. There had been a boyfriend here and there for her, but never anything serious. He had been her idol before she had been assaulted, and become her hero after. There had been countless hours where she had discussed this with her therapist. Was it just a hero complex, was that the true reason she thought she was ‘in love’ with Sherlock? But no. Cleery knew it was much more than that. The two of them connected on a deeper level. They were lovers and companions. Life was continuously throwing roadblocks in front of them, however, making their life together complicated. Cleery had decided long ago that love was not all rainbows and fireworks – love was being able to hold on to that person in your life during the hard times, too. And it had been harder and harder to hold on to what she had with Sherlock.

_I still love you, Sherlock. Do you still love me?_

Exhausted, Cleery fell into a deep sleep. And dreamt of deep and dark things. Of hands grabbing her and holding her down and covering her mouth until her lungs screamed for air. Of an immense, abandoned house that sat dank and rotting, filled with old books and family portraits covered with mold. Of trying to find a way out of the house, but never being able to find a door.

She woke, whimpering, shivering from the cold sweat that covered her.

“I’m here,” Sherlock said from the darkness, coming to her side and smoothing the blankets over her trembling form. Cleery grasped his warm hand and squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears leaking from them. The dreams felt too real, too close.

“This is too hard,” she said gruffly. “I can’t do this anymore. I want to go back to the way things were.”

“How was it, Cleery. Tell me.” Sherlock’s voice was so gentle, so quiet.

“I was alone. I would read John’s blog and I only knew you from the newspapers. I only had horses for comfort and grumpy Henry for companionship. Before the men took me away to a dark place.”

“Do you…think about that last part… a lot?”

“Yes and no. Sometimes whole days go by, and then out of the blue, it hits me. Like a slap in the face. Sherlock, do you see it?”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes you look at me, and I don’t know if I can explain it, but it’s like you know I’m thinking about it. Like you are in my brain.”

He sighed. “Yes.”

“What does it look like?”

“No, Cleery, I can’t-,” Sherlock said, his voice clicking dry in his throat.

“Tell me,” she begged him, tugging on his hand.

“You…. you look _haunted_. I’m sorry,” he offered quickly.

“No, it’s true. I thought I was all good. Things were so good with you, I thought I could just brush it under the rug. But the truth is, I’m just damaged goods.” She let out a long, shaky breath. “I feel like I should have told you a long time ago. What those men did…I don’t think I can ever get past it. I’ve been lying to myself, and lying to you.” she turned her head away from Sherlock, retracting her hand from his.

“Do you know what ‘before’ was for me?” Sherlock offered. “Before was just another case for a missing girl. But that girl, I didn’t just find her. She found me. Before, I didn’t know what love was or how it felt to lose it…and then find it again. All with the same girl! Is this hard? Yes, it is so hard, Cleery.”

They sat in silence for a long while.

“Do you love me, Sherlock,” she said before she could stop the words. Sherlock pulled in his breath sharply.

“I – I don’t know how to convince you. I do. More than anything,” Sherlock’s voice trembled, his hand groped for hers and found it, crushing it. “I don’t want to be anywhere you are not.”

“How can you? After all that’s happened? Me?”

To her surprise, he chuckled. “Are you trying to push me away, Cleery. Are you saying I am too good to be with you. That you are…too messed up…to be with me. _Me._ Sherlock Holmes. Hello, have you met me?”

“I – I don’t-,” she stammered.

“Cleery,” Sherlock whispered, dropping to his knees beside the bed so his eyes were level with hers in the dark and stroking her check gently with the back of his fingers. Cleery inhaled his scent, a mix of old books and wool and chemicals from a science experiment. “I’m taking you home,” he said. “To 221B.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally sets things right.

“Oh, Sherlock, that’s just terrible,” Mrs. Hudson said, pouring the detective more tea as they sat in the kitchen of the Baker Street flat. “John must have put up quite a fight to get that injured. To save Cleery.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes drifting to the new rug in the living room. The old one had been blood-drenched and had to be replaced.

“Almost gave his life,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Poor Cleery, as if she hasn’t been through enough. But she’s such a tough girl. She’ll make it through this. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, dear,” Mrs. Hudson let herself out.

Sherlock didn’t even hear her leave. Instead, he fell deep into his own thoughts.

  1. _John has feelings for Cleery._
  2. _Cleery does not have feelings for John, I believe._
  3. _I love Cleery._
  4. _Cleery loves me, I believe._
  5. _Does Cleery know I love her?_



Finally, he stood and entered his bedroom, where Cleery lay sleeping. Yesterday after they had left the hospital and gotten to the flat she made a beeline for his bed, allowing Sherlock to undress her and place one of his shirts around her shoulders. Then she had slept as if dead, throughout the night and into the morning. It was ten am but still she showed no signs of waking. There was only a small bandage wrapped around her ear now, and the bruising across her face was beginning to heal into a mixture of greens and yellow. Her hair was spread over her eyes as usual, her breath coming long and slow from a deep REM sleep.

She was the only woman he had ever loved. They had been through so much together. It would seem as if their relationship should be stronger. But she was doubting his love for her. Doubting his caring. He had to fix that, somehow. He decided he did need one more thing from Mrs. Hudson.

###

Cleery woke at 4 P.M. to her stomach growling. Even after all that sleep, she didn’t feel refreshed. She dragged herself out of bed and wrapped herself in one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns and headed towards the kitchen for some desperately needed food and tea. But as soon as she neared the end of the hallway that lead out to the living room, she stopped. Something was different. Her heart pounded as she took a slow barefooted step forward.

There were flowers – more specifically, Gerber daisies, her favorite. Bunches and bunches in vases all over the flat. And candles. And soft music playing. And the smell of some lovely food in the kitchen.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello, darling,” Sherlock answered from the kitchen. “Please, sit down. I’ve just started the tea. Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous. Sherlock -,”

He came out of the kitchen with a bowl of strawberries. “The soup is just warming. Mrs. Hudson’s amazing soup. I bought these for you. If there is something else you want, it’s not a problem. I can get take away -,” his movements were too fast. Jittery.

She sat in John’s chair and accepted the plate. “No, I’m sure this will be fine. What -,”

“Ah, tea’s on!”

“Sherlock.”

“Just sugar, correct?”

“Yes, and _Sherlock_!”

The detective handed her a cup of tea.

“What’s going on?” she waved her hand at the flowers and candles.

“Do…you not like them?”

“No, they are all really lovely. Thank you. It’s a very kind gesture.” She placed the tea on the table beside her.

Sherlock stood in front of her, hands clasped. She indicated that he should sit down, and he sat in his chair across from her but leaned forward so he could grasp her hands. He rolled her strong fingers between his long, nimble ones, massaging them, studying them. “I was hoping you would find it more than a gesture,” he pouted. “Mrs. Hudson thought you would really love them.”

They were both quiet, watching Sherlock stroking her fingers. Then they both spoke at once.

“I am truly sorry.”

“I said some things I didn’t mean.”

They smiled. “You first,” Sherlock said.

“I said some things I didn’t mean,” Cleery said. “I know you care. Everything you have done for me - and for John - have come from a place of caring and love. I never doubted those things, although I may have said as such. I know you get scared. I do, too. But that does not mean you run away. And I can’t push you away. The past week has been…well, John was shot, I was kidnapped, my dad is dead – for real this time - it would stress any relationship. And John is nothing more than a dear friend – in a complicated way. But just a friend. All this set me back to a place I don’t like to be. I’ll get better. I’ll pull myself up again. I’m sorry.  That’s all. Your turn.”

Sherlock nodded and blew out his cheeks, then fell on one knee in front of her. “Clarissa Martha O’Donnell, I love you. For you to doubt that even for a moment is my fault, and my fault alone. I promise to never leave your side, ever again, no matter how hard it may be for me to stay. I yearn to be your companion, and your friend, for life.” Sherlock drew an object from his pocket and presented it to her. It was a ring. A modest white gold band interlaid with diamonds.

“Oh, my God.” Cleery stopped breathing.

“I want you to marry me. That is what I want. But at this juncture, I am not certain that is what _you_ want or what you are ready for. I am doing my best to be unselfish. So, I will wait for as long as it takes, for when the time is best. But I want you to accept this ring. I want you to have this ring on your finger as a symbol of my love for you. As a symbol of all the times I have gone away but always returned. As a symbol of all the times you have taken me and my foolish heart back. A symbol that you should never doubt my love for you again, as it will not waver. Do not answer, do not speak, but simply nod your head should you accept this ring in that capacity. That is all I ask.”

Sherlock looked at her expectantly. And licked his lips nervously.

“Cleery?”

She finally nodded, still shocked, and Sherlock slipped it on the ring finger of her left hand and stood up, straightening his shirt. “Now drink your tea, it’s getting cold.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” Cleery stood up gave him a long, sweet kiss. When they parted, both their cheeks were wet with tears. “I don’t want the damned tea or the soup. I want you, darling. I’ve always wanted you.”

Sherlock crushed his mouth onto hers, his hands running across her back. She grabbed onto his hair desperately, pulling him even closer. He lifted her off her feet and carried her into the bedroom. He sat her on the edge of the bed and pushed his dressing gown and his shirt off her, kissing each shoulder gently, his leg between her knees. Cleery fell back on the bed and reached down to unbuckle Sherlock’s pants, but he pushed her hands away. She looked at him in surprise, but he answered with a mischievous smile.

“I’ll do it, when I’m ready,” he said, his eyes dark and luminous. He brought his leg higher between her legs and it rubbed against her panties. Cleery arched her back at the sensation, and he scooped his arms under her, raising a breast to his tender lips. How she loved him when he kissed her breasts. The combination of his warm mouth and wet tongue made her gasp, and he took his time, slowly licking and kissing, his leg high up between her legs now, pressing hard. When he lifted his mouth off her nipple, the wetness he left there cooled in the air and made her shiver.

She moaned his name over and over, letting him do what he wanted.

Cleery just let go. She trusted. She loved.

He need to do this for her, and she needed to let him.

Their hands clasped together, fingers laced, on either side of her head, each gripping so hard their knuckles whitened, holding Cleery captive to her own pleasure. Sherlock’s lips where on hers now, soft little kisses, breathy, tender.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you now, and forever.”

“Forever?”

“God, yes, you beautiful woman. I don’t tell you that enough. You are so beautiful. Your eyes,” he kissed each brow, “your cheeks…your lovely nose…,” he kissed each as he named it. Cleery hummed. “Oh, you want more? Your chin…your cranium…hey, I’m running out of face parts,” he jested as Cleery giggled.

“You usually don’t talk. I like this,” she said.

Sherlock nuzzled her neck, her ear, her jaw, his sweet breath purring against her skin. “Don’t get me started, my darling.”

“Sherlock…I will be your Clarissa Martha O’Donnell Holmes, if you will have me.”

Sherlock pulled back, his wide eyes meeting hers.

“I will marry you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Not today, and not tomorrow, but give me some time, and I will take your name. I’m sorry I didn’t really give you an answer before. You took me quite by surprise.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened but he could not speak.

“Kiss me, you fool,” Cleery smiled. “Kiss me and that will seal the deal.” And he did, so hard and so lovely that she whimpered with sadness when their lips finally parted.

He released her hands and unbuttoned his shirt and she lay her hand on his chest, where the staccato of his heart was hard and fast. His head dropped and he lay a line of kisses down to her belly where he pulled her panties off. Her feet were still touching the floor and Sherlock knelt before her, lifting her legs onto his shoulders. He kissed her soft inner thighs, his breath a sweet tickle on her sensitive skin.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she moaned. “Sherlock, Sherlock…” Cleery’s body felt as coiled as a jaguar, waiting, hidden in the woods, muscles thrumming with anticipation. Finally, Sherlock kissed there, deep between her legs, his hands holding her thighs onto his shoulders as Cleery bucked as his tongue entered her. She grasped the bedsheets as she felt him taste her, his tongue raking long and deep. Cleery glanced down at Sherlock, and the sight of his eyes returning her gaze from between her legs was too much. She fell back on the bed, pushing on Sherlock’s shoulders with her legs, her pelvis rising unconsciously, and he went deeper, now taking a hand from her thigh and entering her with his fingers. His tongue stroked with the same rhythm that his fingers created, first achingly slow, then building with a tempo. He moaned into her and she could only whimper in response, her body trembling, white stars appearing in front of her eyes, a heat that she never felt radiating from Sherlock’s mouth into her, and he felt it, too, moaning again. She tried to hold on, to hold off, to make it last, but she felt the ring on her finger, she felt Sherlock playing her with fingers and tongue, and she cried out, shaking, high on the wave of a tremendous orgasm, and Sherlock wouldn’t stop though she begged him to, instead raising her to a place she had never been.

“God, I need you. I need you in me,” Cleery cried. Sherlock pulled himself away and dropped his pants and boxers and leaned over her, his body resting on his elbows on either side of her head. Cleery wrapped her still shaking legs around his lean waist and he was in her, moving with her, filling her, bodies together, eyes locked.

“Don’t stop, don’t ever stop,” she whispered, and Sherlock’s face tensed, and together they cried out as he came, bodies pushing hard against each other, sweating, clenching and then releasing, but holding on and never letting go.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will John, Sherlock and Cleery ever be a team again?

Cleery was dreaming that she was in the house again, searching for a way out. The floorboards sank under her feet and the taste of mold coated her tongue. Room after room she checked as she walked down an endless corridor, bedrooms with rotting quilts and bathrooms with grimy towels. Finally, she came to a grand library where book pages turned to dust in her hands and portraits of the former owners glared down at her. In the overwhelming silence, she heard a whispered plea for help behind a large desk. It was John, sitting up against a stack of books, blood coating his shirt. His eyes looked at her in distress. She knelt beside him to help, but her hands were coated with blood before she even touched him.

Cleery woke, sitting bolt upright in bed, expletives on her lips. Sherlock lay beside her, fully awake, hands behind his head, one eyebrow raised. They were in her bed at her estate, where they had been spending the past few days. It was a place to avoid reality, in a way. Sherlock still brought his laptop and worked, but for Cleery it was an escape, it was home, it was safe.

“Don’t say it,” she said, getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom. Cleery turned the shower on as Sherlock came in the room behind her.

“The house again?”

“Yes. John was there, all bloody. I swear, I just need to find a way out of there. He was in the library this time.” Cleery slipped out of her nightgown and into the shower.

“Where was the library?”

“At the far end of the corridor. It had…. yes, it had windows. But I must get out through a door. Ugh, stupid dream! It doesn’t mean anything, darling, please. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” She shivered, even though the shower was close to scalding. Cleery heard the door open and close again as Sherlock left the bathroom. She finished and wrapped herself in a towel and ventured out to her room. The detective was back under the covers, answering some texts on his phone. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited until he looked up at her.

“Heading home?” she asked.

“John is coming home today,” he answered. “He and I have some catching up to do.”

Cleery groaned. They had been over this a million times. Neither one of them had been back to visit John since that day in the hospital where he had kissed her, and Sherlock was determined to confront him about it, when Cleery insisted that is should be her. They had some heated discussions about it, often ending in angry tears for Cleery. She was heartbroken to think that she would come between the two dear friends. She had argued that John and she could resolve it themselves, but Sherlock was equally determined that it should be him laying down the law.

“You didn’t resolve it before, so now it’s unfortunately up to me. Once I’m done with him -,” Sherlock tossed his phone on the bed and got up and headed to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. Cleery heard the shower turn on and sighed. This was not going to go well.

###

“Here, let me get that,” Sherlock stiffly swung John’s bag up onto his shoulder as John bid good bye to the nurses as they walked down the hallway, shook his doctor’s hand and thanked him, then followed a very impatient Sherlock downstairs and into the waiting cab. Sherlock busied himself on his phone during the ride, only grunting replies to John’s attempt at small talk. Finally, at 221 Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a warm hug.

“I’ve stocked the fridge and cleaned up the place a bit. It was quite a mess with you gone. You all recovered, John?”

“Better than new,” John assured her, thumping his chest. He followed Sherlock up the stairs and breathed a sigh of relief as he fell into his familiar chair. “It’s very true what they say, there is no place like home.”

Sherlock stood, his hands clasped behind his back, studying the mantelpiece. Long, silent seconds ticked by.

“John -,”

“I know what you are going to say, Sherlock. I know you must be beyond upset with me. And Cleery, too. I did a terrible thing, and I am truly sorry. Can you sit down? I’ve had enough time to think about what I’m going to say, and I want to say it. Please.”

Sherlock took a step backward and sat in his chair, his long form gracefully folding into it like a worn leather glove, fingers laced into his thought pyramid. John nodded at his friend.

“I heard you two out in the hallway that day. You found out that I kissed Cleery that day, and another time, too. Well, she kissed me, but that does not matter. What matters is the hurt I have caused the two most important people in my life. I won’t lie to you, however. I am attracted to Cleery. She is smart and beautiful – well, you know. But she is not in love with me. Nor could she ever be. Sherlock, you don’t know how well the two of you fit. I’ve never seen two people made for each other more than you and her. I give you my word. I will never come between you two, ever again. I promise.” John released the giant breath he had been holding and returned his flat mate’s steady gaze.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock responded after a long minute. “I accept your apology, on behalf of Cleery and myself. I would never seek to choose between the two of you. Don’t ever place me in a position where I would have to. I also wish to thank you for your courageous actions against that man who -, well. Yes. That was very admirable.”

John held out his hand and Sherlock shook it.

“I’m going to crawl into my bed now and take a nap, Sherlock. Unless there are cases you want to bring me up to speed on-,”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Nothing pressing.” John stood up and began to walk to the stairs to his bedroom and the detective spoke again. “I asked her to marry me, John.”

John whirled around, a mixture of emotions on his face. “That’s – that’s so wonderful!”

“Yes. Well, nothing immediate. I just wanted her to know that is my intention.”

The unsaid words hung in the air: _I’m letting YOU know that is my intention. Hands off, John._

“Of course. Congratulations, dear friend.”

Sherlock nodded in response, his eyes drifting, thoughts already on several different things. John trudged upstairs, his footsteps just a little bit heavier.

###

A few weeks later, John begged off going out on a case with Sherlock. His head felt stuffy and his head leaden – the obvious indicators of a good old fashioned cold. Sherlock shrugged and was out the door, ignorant of how it felt. The damn man never got ill. John struggled through making tea, then put on some terrible television and curled up in his chair, sniffling and coughing.

It was about an hour later that he heard light footsteps bounding up the stairs to the flat. John snapped off the telly and sunk down in his chair. It was Cleery. A feeling of dread filled the man – he had not seen or talked to her since the incident in the hospital. A key turned in the lock and Cleery entered, humming, and armful of Sherlock’s shirts in her grasp. She must have come just after riding, as she was still dressed in her black leather boots and jodhpurs. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun and she wore a crisp button down white shirt under her black leather jacket.

“Eh, hello, Cleery,” John said.

“Oh! Oh, John, you surprised me. I didn’t think anyone would be home – I had to come to London to get a saddle repaired and thought I would drop off these shirts. Sherlock just keeps bringing them to the estate and leaving them – I think he just keeps buying new ones. Wow. I just had verbal diarrhea there.” She stood by the door, not moving, eyes wide.

“It’s okay. I don’t bite. You can come in,” he coughed.

“Are you not well? I thought you were both going to be out on a case.”

John coughed again in reply and blew his nose. “Yes, but just a cold. Don’t get too close.”

“Oh, trust me, I won’t.”

John looked up at her in surprise, but there was the hint of a smile on her face.

“Are we good?” she asked him.

“Yes, Cleery. Sherlock must have told you I apologized-,” he began, but Cleery finally moved towards him and smiling, shook her head.

“What’s passed is past, John. Don’t give it another thought. Please.”

John fell back into his chair, not certain if he was feeling more relieved or embarrassed. She must have felt it, too, the awkwardness, as she began to chat about the weather as she walked down the hallway and deposited the shirts into Sherlock’s room. John responded in kind as she began to clean the kitchen and put on a fresh pot. _It was so surficial, this small talk, nothing like what they used to share at their lunches._ John felt a hot hole burn in his stomach. He had really wrecked things. And he had to fix it.

“Cleery,” he interrupted her. “I need to tell you something.” She fell silent, and John could hear the clinking of dishes for a few minutes as she tidied the kitchen. When the teapot shrilled, she brought him a fresh cup with a side of honey and lemon for his cold. Cleery sat across from him on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, sipping her tea. One leg swung nervously as she waited to John to begin speaking.

“I know I apologized to Sherlock, and he told me that he was going to pass it on to you. But I want to tell you in person, Cleery, of just how sorry I am. Of what a horrible position I put you in and how I regret what happened.”

She stared at her tea and John continued.

“When I was lying on this floor, bleeding out, I knew you would try to help me. And you did. You kept the pressure on my wound, you fought to stay with me. Oh, I heard it all,” he said to her surprised expression. “You were a hero that day. Thank you, Cleery, for everything you did for me. Thank you.”

Cleery cleared her throat and shrugged. “You’re welcome,” she whispered. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“When I woke up in the hospital, I felt like I was granted a second – actually, a third lease on life. I should have died, but I lived. And that moment when I woke up and you were there…,” John blew his nose and coughed for a few minutes. “I thought, I have to let her know how I feel because I may never have the chance again. You never needed to know. I should have just kept everything to myself instead of being so foolish.”

“John, you know that I – I’m so sorry, but I don’t have feelings for you. I’m sorry,” Cleery’s face was flushed with emotion, mouth scrunched. “If I ever did anything to make you think differently -,” her booted foot swung furiously.

“God, no. It’s all my, Cleery. And a big part of it is seeing what you and Sherlock have and wanting that for myself. That true love. I admit it, I am jealous of that.”

“You will have that someday, I promise,” she said, her eyes finally raised to meet John’s. “You are an amazing man, Dr. Watson. Any girl should be so lucky to be with you.”

“Except you.”

Cleery laughed. “Yes, except me.”

“You don’t have a hidden sister somewhere, do you?”

“No!” Cleery gave him a big smile, but ducked her head to hide wiping a tear from her cheek.

“Why are you crying?” John so much wanted to take her into his arms in that instant, but instead dug his fingers into the arms of his chair.

“I have missed our friendship, John. I hope we can get it back.”

“Let’s give it some time, yeah? Let Sherlock get used to the idea, too.” Then he sneezed.

“You really need to get in bed. Go ahead, I’ll clean up here. Get under the covers and rest.”

John nodded, too emotionally and physically exhausted to disagree. But he was happy and his heart was a bit more at rest. There had been several times he had typed out a text to Cleery, but felt that this was going behind Sherlock’s back, and immediately deleted it before he could hit send. He knew they would not be able to avoid each other forever – well, they could if Sherlock could have his way – and it was serendipitous that she had come over on a day that he was home sick. He began to stand from the chair, then remembered.

“Cleery, let me see it.”

She was already back in the kitchen at the sink and glanced over her shoulder, a quizzical look on her face.

“See what? Oh, yes, of course!” She dried her hands and came over to John, a beaming smile across her face as she showed him the ring.

“It’s so lovely,” John said, taking her hand in his so he could see it better. “Congratulations. And I do mean that. Sincerely. I would hug you if I weren’t so sick.”

Cleery pulled John closed and wrapped her arms around him anyway. “Thank you, John. That means so much.”

“Ah- _choo!_ ”

“Okay, off to bed with you, you germy thing. We’ll talk soon again.”

“What about Sherlock? He’ll know you’ve been here and that I was here.” John rasped. He so wanted his bed, but he had to make sure any loose ends were tied up.

“Oh, John, he’s a big boy and he’s going to have to pull up his big boy pants. You and I can’t avoid each other forever. So, we talked, big deal.”

“You’re a good woman, Cleery. Don’t ever let Sherlock forget that.”

Cleery lifted her chin. “Oh, I won’t.”

John gave her a small smile and a thumbs up as he wearily climbed the stairs to his room.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news is out.

“Four hundred and eighty-seven, four hundred and eighty-eight, four hundred and eighty-nine -,” Sherlock counted, pacing off steps in the massive, empty warehouse.

“Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock!” Lestrade came running across the space to the detective, who held up a hand to silence him.

“Four hundred ninety, four hundred ninety-one. What.”

Lestrade held up the front page of a local tabloid. “Never figured you for the marryin’ type. Congratulations!”

Sherlock scanned the headline: “LONDON’S TOP DETECTIVE TO MARRY FORMER CLIENT” and grunted. “News travels fast,” he muttered as he crouched down to scan the concrete.

“So it’s true?”

“Of course it’s true. Every other bit of that paper is obviously dribble, but yes, that part is true.”

Lestrade turned the paper towards himself and reread the headline. “Well. I just never.”

“Ah-ha!” Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and studied a red spot on the pavement.

“I always thought it would be John, honestly,” Lestrade said.

“Can we focus, please! I’ve got blood spatter here. And what do you mean, you thought it would be John?” Sherlock said, rising to his full height.

“Well, there was always talk you two were a couple,” Greg sputtered. “You know, just silly talk. Gossip.”

“John is not gay. And neither am I.” Sherlock folded his magnifying glass and tucked it into his pocket.

“Well, that’s apparent, now! You got a date set?”

“A date?” Sherlock asked, looking confused.

“Yeah, you know, a date for the wedding.”

The detective turned to his friend and stared him down.

“Okay, okay, but you know what this means!” Greg smiled widely and set a playful punch on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Bachelor party!”

Sherlock pulled up his collar and began walking to the other end of the warehouse where Anderson and his team were waiting. “That really won’t be necessary,” he said.

“What are you talking about? Of course it is! Hear that, Anderson? We get to bring this guy out before he ties the knot!”

 “I hope it’s a knot around his neck,” sneered Anderson.

“Now, now, you two play nice! I’ll talk with John and see if he’s already got somethin’ planned,” Lestrade folded the paper and put it under his arm. “I’m proud of you, Sherlock. You found a good woman in Cleery. Just don’t screw things up.” Greg chuckled and patted Sherlock on the arm as he turned away.

“Why does an impending betrothal between a male and a female result in fraternization between men?” Sherlock muttered as he wiped his Belstaff where Greg had touched him. “The blood splatters are four hundred and eighty-nine of my strides that way, Anderson. Let me know when you have a cause of death, so I may inform you of the _correct_ cause of death.”

Sherlock smiled as he left Anderson sputtering behind him, hailed a cab, and headed home. It only took him an instant to pick up the scent of Cleery, fresh, today. He hustled up the stairs to the flat in anticipation, her name on his lips, but was disappointed to see no sign of her in the flat, except for a large pile of his shirts on his bed and a clean kitchen. John came down the stairs, sniffling.

“When was Cleery here?” Sherlock asked him. John rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch.

“A few hours ago. She dropped off your shirts,” John replied.

“How long did she stay?” Sherlock dropped his coat from his shoulders and hung it up, his movements stiff and agitated.

“Well, she dropped off your shirts - ,”

“Yes, yes, you said that,” the detective snapped as he moved his microscope back into position on the kitchen table.

“She cleaned the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Maybe twenty minutes or so.”

“She came all the way to London to drop off my shirts?”

John angrily tightened his robe and sat in his chair. “Sherlock, is this an interrogation? Cleery came over and we had a quick chat and she left. That is all. I won’t stand for this every time I see your finance when you are not around.”  John startled at the sound of a crash in the kitchen and jumped out of his chair. Sherlock stood by the sink, several plates smashed to bits on the floor by his feet. The detective’s hands were in his hair, his head dropped so John could not see his face.

“Sherlock? You all right?”

“I can’t lose her again, John,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ve come so close, so many times. If anything should happen, I would be lost.”

John ran to his friend and put a hand on each arm. “Hey, that’s not going to happen. Come on, now, Sherlock, Cleery is not going anywhere,” he said soothingly. He had never seen Sherlock in this state before – eyes wide, cheeks mottled, a sense of distress shaking his lithe frame.

“Eh, thank you, John. I think I’ll just go to my room,” Sherlock said quietly.

“You sure? We can talk, you know,” John said. Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps bounded up the stairs and she tapped lightly on the door before letting herself in.

“Boys? You boys all right? I heard something crash.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. Everything is fine. Just some slippery dishes fell out of – um, my hands,” John said.

“And you’ve got a cold, too. Poor dear. Here, I’ll take care of all that.” Mrs. Hudson waved them off as she entered the kitchen. “My, it’s so clean in here! You boys have been doing a good job!” She began to hum to herself as she retrieved the broom and dustpan and swept up the broken plates. Sherlock, in the meantime, had slunk off to his room and closed the door softly behind him.


	27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three of them are just trying to work things out.

CHAPTER 27

The next morning John woke and went downstairs, where his flat mate was already busy at work, three laptops open in front of him, typing furiously on each one in turn.

“Good case?” John asked him, sniffing. He was already feeling better, and had that restless feeling of being stuck inside buildings, healing, for too long.

“Mmmph.”

John smiled and helped himself to a Mrs. Hudson-delivered cup of tea and opened the paper, relaxing in his chair.

“I suppose you saw the headlines yesterday?” John asked him. “I wonder how the press found out.”

“Perhaps a little bird told them,” Sherlock said. John lowered the paper in surprise.

“Sherlock?”

The detective finally turned to meet John’s eyes, a sly smile on his lips but a hardness in his eyes. “Now anyone who has the intention of ever coming near her again knows that she is under my protection.”

“You’re not going to lose her, Sherlock. That fact that you two have made it this far certainly proves that.”

“What do you know about hypnosis?” Sherlock asked sharply as he turned back to his laptops.

“In a medical sense?”

“I mean in a sense…to…have someone be…introspective.”

John furrowed his brow and folded his newspaper on his lap. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, yeah?”

His flat mate stood up and closed the laptops in quick succession, his royal blue dressing gown billowing around him. John could see his was chewing on his lip, trying to find the words. Sherlock was floundering, and was tossing out an anchor, hoping it would catch. The relationship between the flat mates was on precarious ground lately, but Sherlock needed John. Desperately.

“I have a follow up appointment at the hospital later today,” John volunteered. “Let me ask around. I’m sure I know someone that knows someone. Sound good?”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock replied, releasing a long-held breath, his lips twitching back into a smile.

“Right. Now I’m feeling a bit better today, so how about you fill me in on that case?”

 

###

 

“Oh, Molly. Oh. My. God,” Cleery said, putting down her beer.

“What?” Molly put her beer down too, concerned about the worried expression on her friend’s face. The deep throb of the electronic music in the club drowned out their voices so much the girls had to scream at each other across the table.

“I’m drunk!” Cleery laughed. “I’m so bloody drunk, girl, and it’s all your fault!”

Molly gazed at Cleery with affection. “Silly girl! I’m not the one forcing them down your throat!”

“No, but you keep buying them,” Cleery replied, shaking her head as Molly flagged down the server for another round. “No more for me!”

“Cleery, you just nabbed the most eligible bachelor in all of London. Its cause for celebration!”

Cleery reached across the table and squeezed Molly’s hand. “Thank you,” she said, the meaning behind the words more than she could express. “I know it’s been really hard for you sometimes, Molly. You are a true friend.”

Molly smiled but shrugged her shoulders as the server placed shots in front of each girl. After protesting that they had not ordered them, the server pointed to a couple of young lads waving at them from across the bar. The girls waved back and raised the shots in a salute before gulping them down, giggling.

“Oh, that’s really it. I have to stand up or I’m going to fall off this chair!” Cleery said.

“What time is it?” Molly said.

“Almost time for last call. I can’t remember that last time I’ve stayed up this late!” The girls pulled on their coats and stumbled out of the pub to a couple of waiting cabs. They embraced, laughing, and said their good nights before taking separate cabs home.

Sherlock was stretched out on the couch at 221B, scanning a file that Lestrade had dropped off hours earlier. His ears perked to the sound of the door at the bottom of the stairs opening, and uneven footsteps plodding to his flat. He didn’t realize it was Cleery until she tried the handle and swore upon realizing it was locked. He waited patiently for her to fish out her keys, try one, drop the entire set, swear, and try another wrong one as he watched her silhouette weave to and fro in front of the frosted glass panel of the door.

With a relish, the door swung open and a triumphant and intoxicated Cleery walked through the door, only to stop in her tracks when she saw Sherlock on the couch.

“Sherlock! How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” he replied with a droll, turning back to his file.

“Molly and I went out tonight,” Cleery announced, slurring, as she came over and sat on Sherlock’s stomach as if he were the couch.

“Ouff! I gathered. Fun?”

“SOOOO fun!” Cleery said, grasping the file from Sherlock’s hands and tossing it aside. She stretched out on top of him and nestled her head between his shoulder and his neck with a sigh. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and smiled.

“You are drunk.”

“Yes. Not an altogether unpleasant feeling, honestly. And then when those guys bought us shots-,”

“Shots?!”

“Yes. Terrible idea. We left right after that. I guess when you dance you get thirsty and I had a few too many beers.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I think you need to go to bed.”

“Oh, I’m so comfortable right here. I…don’t wanna…move. I’m very comfortable. With everything. I want to marry you. I love that idea. I am comfortable with you.”

“Ah, the drunkard waxes poetic.”

Cleery raised a hand a few inches off his chest and brought it back down in a mock slap. “Be nice. I’m being serious. Life is so hard. With you, I’m safe.”

Sherlock kissed the top of her head.  “I’m glad. But now, off to bed.”

Cleery squealed in protest as Sherlock sat up and gathered her in his arms. She looped her arms around his neck, her luminous eyes gazing into his. She kissed him and leaned into him and pushed him back down, where she resumed her full length position on top of him.

“I told you l like it here,” Cleery teased, nuzzling behind Sherlock’s ear. He ran his hands down her back and over the tight jeans covering her buttocks and squeezed them. Cleery squirmed and took the lobe of Sherlock’s ear between her teeth and busied her hands in his hair.

“Hmmm….,” Sherlock hummed as she wound her fingers into his curls and pulled. He tugged her shirt out from her jeans and massaged the muscles of her lower back, feeling them flex and then relax under the pads of his fingers. He let his hands slowly work their way up to her shoulder blades, where he pressed down, adhering Cleery’s body closely to his. He dropped a foot to the floor to make room for the growing erection in his pants.

“You are so beautiful,” Cleery whispered. “So strong. So brave. So handsome. So Sherlock.”

They could have stayed like this forever, comfortable, close, whispering sweet things, so incredibly turned on from just being together, letting their warm breath mingle. But a creak from upstairs indicated to Sherlock that John was out of bed and on his way downstairs.

“Cleery, we should go to bed,” Sherlock urged. She whined in response, but it was too late to move. John turned the corner from the bottom of the stairs, rubbing his eyes but coming to a quick standstill when he saw the two figures entangled on the couch.

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled.

“We were just on our way to bed,” Sherlock assured him.

“I had fun tonight!” Cleery said too loudly, her face still buried in Sherlock’s shoulder.

“And a bit too much to drink,” the detective replied. “Come on, up!” Cleery did not protest this time, her eyes now closed as Sherlock sat her up and pulled on her hands for her to stand. John smiled as she walked slowly by him, led gently by Sherlock.  

“I’ll be sure to have extra tea on hand for tomorrow morning,” John said.

“It IS ‘morrow morning,” Cleery slurred, and produced a wide yawn.

“Goodnight, you two.”

“Good night, John.”

“Gud night, Jawn.”

Sherlock managed to guide Cleery to his room where she promptly collapsed on the bed. He pulled off her shoes and jeans and rolled her under the covers. She mumbled and assumed the Cleery sleeping pose of on her side, hair covering her face. Sherlock brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek, smiling.

So Sherlock, he thought.

When he walked back into the living room, John was still standing there, arms crossed, rocking back on his heels. Sherlock picked up the file Cleery had flung across the room earlier and sat back on the couch, an eyebrow raised in inquiry at his flat mate.

“Sherlock, I think I should find someplace else to live.”

“What?”

“Well, if the two of you are getting married, you certainly don’t want a third wheel rolling around in here. I’ll start looking tomorrow.”

“John, wait. I – I hadn’t thought about that.” In truth, the thought of John no longer being his flat mate was almost terrifying to Sherlock. It took his breath away for a moment.

John’s brow furrowed and he looked away. “Things are going to change, Sherlock. If you get married -,”

“WHEN we get married,” Sherlock corrected him, a myriad of emotions making his chest clench. He didn’t want to lose John, but of course he was going to marry Cleery, so why was John saying ‘if’?

“Of course, when. That’s what I meant. When. Have you thought about where you are going to live? At her place? Here? Married couples live together, you know.”

Sherlock stood suddenly, fueled by anger. “Of course I know. _I know_. And given the circumstances, yes, perhaps it is best that you leave.”

John’s head whipped back to Sherlock, his eyes dark with an anger all their own. “Circumstances? Sherlock, I thought we were way past that. Do you think for a moment that I would do anything – forget it. Right. I’m gone as soon as I can find a place. If you don’t trust me then I don’t want to be here. Good night.” He went to go back up his stairs, but then whirled back and marched to the loo. Sherlock crumpled the file in his hands before storming to his bedroom. He yanked off his clothes and flung them into the corner before taking a deep breath and sliding into bed next to Cleery. Her back was to him, and he curled up behind her and pulled her close. He pressed his cheek to the back of her head and willed his angry heart to slow its beating. It was another hour before he slept.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, waking him, a few hours later. He was in bed alone, and he spread his hand over the imprint of Cleery’s head on the pillow next to him. She was so good, he thought. Such a gentle but strong heart. Sherlock’s mind switched over to the argument he had with John last night and he groaned as he rolled out of bed sitting up and placing his head in his hands. It was true, he still did not trust John. The idea of John thinking about his Cleery in that way made him seethe, but to not have John here with him at 221B was equally unsettling. His head jerked up at the sound of Cleery and John’s laughter. Sherlock practically flung himself into his dressing gown and whipped opened the door.

“Good morning!” Cleery greeted him as Sherlock bolted into the kitchen. The two were sitting at the table, Cleery with a large breakfast in front of her. John sat across from her, studying his cup of tea.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said, and nodded to John, who raised his eyes just enough to catch the nod and return it.

“John made me a fabulous breakfast. Feed a hangover, he says. Would you like some?”

Sherlock declined and sat at his laptop in the next room. The two finished a quiet breakfast and cleaned the kitchen. When they were done, John pulled on his coat and left the flat. Cleery came over to Sherlock and stood behind him, wrapping her arms around him, her chin on top of his head.

“Did you read John’s latest blog? He did a great job.”

“Mmmph.”

Cleery stepped back and brought her hands up to his shoulders, where she slowly kneaded the muscles.

“You’re tense.”

“No.”

“You mad at me? About last night?”

“No.”

“Well, enough of the twenty questions. I’m off, then.”

Sherlock spun around and grabbed one of her hands as it left his shoulder.

“I had a fight with John last night and I don’t know what to do.”

Cleery’s mouth formed an ‘o’ and she nodded. “I thought things were a bit tense this morning. What was it about?”

“He thinks he should move out because of us. And then I said some things - ,” Sherlock turned back to his laptop, unseeing. “I don’t want him to leave here. But when we get married, how can he stay? And I still think he has feelings for you. I don’t like this.”

“Darling,” Cleery knelt beside Sherlock and he turned to her. “Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly.”

“Then you need to know if John ever acted on any feelings he has for me – if he has any for me – then I will handle it, right then and there. But I will not stand for jealously in any way, shape or form, from you. If you are jealous, or suspicious, of any time I spend with John,  that will be the end of us. You must know that I treasure John as a friend, and someday I see him and me becoming good friends again. You cannot stand in the way of that. As far as the flat, I would hate for John to leave. We are not in a rush to get married, and Lord knows, planning these things takes time. So, let’s just put off John leaving for now. I like coming here, and whenever I leave, it makes me happy knowing that John is here with you. I don’t want that to change. We’ll figure it out. All of us. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded and brushed a strand of hair away from Cleery’s upturned face. “Did you dream last night?”

She frowned and looked away, the look in her eyes making Sherlock’s heart ache. It was a mixture of anger and fear. And it was still there. Haunted.

“Just a bit.”

“The house?”

“Not today, okay darling? I’ve got a lot of work to do at the estate. The groomsman is bringing in his son so I want to be there to meet him, as I may hire him as well. Talk to John, all right?”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed glumly.

Cleery stood up and kissed her fiancé on the forehead.

“No place without you,” she said.

“No place without you,” Sherlock returned.

She gave him a final smile as she closed the door of the flat behind her. Sherlock finished a few more emails and read John’s latest blog, smiling at the clever way Dr. Watson described it. He was a good man that had saved his lives on several occasions. They were a damned good team. Sherlock took a moment to scroll through several of the other blogs, recalling their adventures. Sherlock without Watson is like England without tea, he thought. Yes, he would talk to John. He would set things right. He would make Cleery proud and happy. The detective grabbed his Belstaff and tugged his scarf tightly around his neck and went outside, his feet leading him to John’s favorite café. The day was brisk, with a stiff wind and gray clouds covering the sky. The air was refreshing, however, and Sherlock drank in the smell of London with every gust.

Mr. Watson was sitting at a corner table, his back to the wall, sipping tea and reading the paper. Sherlock walked up to the table and stood awkwardly until John acknowledged him.

“Fancy meeting you here,” John said flatly.

“May I?”

John jerked a shoulder in a shrug of response and Sherlock sat down, folding and unfolding his fingers nervously.

“John, I am sorry.”

“Well, that’s to the point.”

“I don’t want you to leave 221B. Cleery agrees. And I’m – I’m not going to be jealous or suspicious. I trust Cleery, and I trust you.”

John pursed his lips and glanced up at Sherlock. “To say these things is one thing, to do them is another, you understand. I will not stand for interrogations.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I would prefer if you two kept your romantic affairs in the bedroom.”

“Of course.”

John cocked his head. “Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to leave, either.”

“So you won’t.”

“If you keep your word on the things we just discussed, I’ll stick around for a bit longer.”

Sherlock released his breath that he did not realize he had been holding. “Good.”

“Right.”

Feeling he was being dismissed, Sherlock stood up and buttoned his coat. “Good work on the blog. Excellent write up on the last case.”

John’s eyes were back down on his paper, but his lips twitched into a small smile. “See you back at the flat,” he said.


	28. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To dream of a house represents your mindset or perspective on a situation.

CHAPTER 28

_To dream of a house represents your mindset or perspective on a situation. They type of house is symbolic for how you are thinking about an issue. The condition of the house is reflective of your mental state. Abandoned houses symbolize mental or emotional neglect. They may also be a sign that you have pushed feelings or issues aside instead of dealing with them, and that you may feel powerless or emotionally weak._

“Rubbish!” Sherlock exclaimed, slamming his laptop shut. John, crouched down and examining a blood stain on the carpet at a crime scene, started.

“Jesus, Sherlock, really!” he scolded.

“Sorry, John,” the detective replied as he stood up from the dingy kitchen table. “Find anything?”

“Just a lot of blood,” John sighed. “A very sad state of affairs.”

“How’s that?”

“Sherlock, a child was murdered here. This is that child’s blood. Grieving parents. Broken family. That’s the very sad state of affairs to which I am referring.”

Sherlock crouched down next to John. “Do you ever think about your dreams?”

His partner looked at him in bewilderment. “Dreams?”

“Yes. Our minds have an infinite amount of information to disseminate everyday – especially mine.” He ignored John’s eye roll as they stood up. “It makes sense that it would continue to process said information while our physical bodies rest. Thus, dreams.”

“Do you dream?”

“Not really. But then again, I don’t really sleep.”

“You’ve been sleeping more these days.”

“Yeeessss…,” Sherlock eyed John, telling himself to not look too much into such a statement.

John finished writing up his notes and looked up at his friend. “Dreams are more of an interpretation. They are the brain’s own perspective on our daily lives, mixed in with emotion and psyche.” The men left the house and began walking to Scotland Yard, just a few blocks away and it was unspoken between them they would stroll there on this pleasant day.

“Hmm.”

“Why are you asking about dreams, Sherlock?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s never nothing with you.”

“That’s a double negative.”

“Sherlock.” John stopped and faced his comrade. “Are you having bad dreams?”

“No. It’s Cleery.” They resumed walking, and the words came flowing out of Sherlock. “Cleery has been having a recurring dream about being trapped in a house and she needs to find a way out. She’s not scared or being chased, but she encounters bad men, and sometimes she sees you all bloody, and it’s quite alarming.”

John could see how Sherlock wanted to help Cleery, but was uncertain how to. It clicked in John’s head that this was in fact why Sherlock was asking about hypnosis a few days ago. In fact, John was quite certain that Sherlock had not even discussed the hypnosis option with his fiancé. He glanced over at the tall man beside him, noting how Sherlock’s brows were knit together with stress.

“I see.”

The two men strolled together in comfortable silence, each deep in their thoughts.

“Could you hypnotize her?” Sherlock finally asked.

“That’s….not something I would be comfortable doing. It may look like an easy parlor trick, but there is a lot to it. What about Mycroft? Certainly the government must have its hands in – shall we say – areas of suggestion.”

“I don’t want my brother to know any of this,” Sherlock said, but there was a bit of a growl in his velvet voice that made John glance over at him.

“Right.”

They had arrived at Scotland Yard.

“Have you figured it out?” Sherlock asked. John looked at him in surprise. “The case. The one we were just at, of course. John, the dead fish in the aquarium should have been a clear indication!” Sherlock winked at the confused man and hopped up the steps to the building. “Come on, you know I don’t care much for repeating myself. I’ll tell you and Lestrade at the same time.”

 

###

 

It was two days later, and John had just finished writing up a blog post on the latest case. He decided to reward himself with a warm cup of tea – with a dollop of brandy – and toast his toes by the fire. His eyes were soon drooping to the sound of gentle raindrops outside and the crackling of the fire in the wonderful, comforting silence of the flat.

_Ahhhhh._

“No way. No. Bloody. _WAY_!” Cleery’s shout startled John from his rest. She was outside the flat on the sidewalk and John trundled over to the window to look out.

“Well maybe you should have _ASKED ME FIRST_!” she shouted. John could see her stamp her foot in anger. The pane of the window blocked John’s view of Cleery’s companion, but of course he knew it was Sherlock. He shifted six inches to see the detective, who was clearly attempting to calm her down. Sherlock spoke in a low voice, his hands raised towards her, palms up.

“No, I will. Not. _CALM DOWN_!”

John had to chuckle. It amused him how Cleery’s rage seemed to intensify at the end of every sentence. The girl dropped her bag of groceries to the sidewalk and walked in a tight circle, pulling at her hair. John could not hear Sherlock’s words, but he could certainly imagine what the poor man was trying to say. Cleery spun on her heels and pointed a finger in Sherlock’s face, her own face red with rage. Sherlock grasped her wrist and put his face close to hers, murmuring all the while. It took a few moments, but John could see Cleery’s shoulders relax and her head bow to her chest. Sherlock dared to step closer and Cleery rested her forehead on his chest, seemingly exhausted from her tirade. When Sherlock finally was able to wrap a strong arm around her and guide her into 221B, John sprung into the kitchen to reheat the still-warm kettle.

It was a weary couple that climbed up the stairs and entered the flat. Sherlock removed Cleery’s coat while she kicked off her shoes and promptly lay down in front of the fire, facing it, curled up like a cat.

“Anyone for tea?” John asked brightly.

“Please,” Sherlock replied, hanging his own coat. Cleery grunted an affirmation.

“Eh, groceries?” John inquired.

“I’ll get them,” Sherlock muttered and pounded down the stairs to retrieve them from the sidewalk. John walked over to Cleery and playfully pushed her with his foot.

“You alive down there?”

“Yes,” she grumbled.

“Everything all right?”

“I hate it when he’s right.”

“Ah, I think I know what you mean,” John sat back down on his chair and Cleery looked up at him. Her eyes were still bright with anger, her cheeks mottled red. “It’s something that’s pretty hard to get used to, as he’s pretty much right…all the time.”

Cleery groaned and clasped her hands over her face. John smiled as he heard her sigh with resignation. Sherlock came back up the stairs with the groceries and John begin putting them away. Sherlock sat down beside his fiancée on the ground, his legs stretched out along her body, his back up against his chair. John brought over the tea and sat down. He had the feeling they were waiting for him.

“Brandy?” he offered, and Sherlock held out both cups for a generous dollop, then placed one beside Cleery on the floor. She swirled a finger in the tea, her diamond ring catching the firelight.

 _They’re going to make it,_ thought John _. Like every couple, they have their ups and downs. But they are in love and they’re going to make this work. They will get married and I’ll move away and they will have a life together until they die_. John knew it all along, but somehow seeing them just now at their worst – and now just fine – made it that much more real to him. It wasn’t the thought that he was going to be alone. It was the realization that the most woodenly emotional man John had ever met was in love. And John didn’t know if he would ever have that. The thought slammed into John and made him gasp aloud. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, but John cleared his throat to cover it.

“So, how are things?” he asked, lacing his hands together over his chest.

“Terrible!” Cleery announced, but the tone in her voice was not serious. She turned onto her back and stretched her legs so that her toes pushed against Sherlock’s stomach. He gave her a wry smile and began to massage her feet. Cleery tilted her head back and looked up at John.

“John, what do YOU know about my dreams? Because apparently Sherlock has been parading about town announcing to anyone that will listen that I’m having nightmares-,”

“Not true!” Sherlock interjected. “I didn’t parade.”

“In all truth, Cleery, I told someone about them, too,” John said. Cleery groaned. “It was a professional. And I didn’t give her any specifics about who it was.”

“So you found someone,” Sherlock said. His long fingers dug into the arch of Cleery’s foot and she flinched.

“Yes, a very reputable doctor who practices ‘dream sequencing.’ She will walk you through your dream to find a solution – in this case, I think, a door?”

“That’s what HE thinks,” Cleery sniffed, pointing at Sherlock with one of her feet. Sherlock gently took the foot in his hand and guided in back down.

“You are in a house,” Sherlock began, and Cleery closed her eyes. “You can picture every detail. The scrolls in the woodwork. The paintings on the walls, the titles of the books in the library, the feel of the carpet - ,”

“I even found an old photo album and I could describe every portrait if you wanted me to.”

“-but you feel you have to find a way out. There are no doors, however.”

“There are windows,” Cleery held up a finger to make her point. “But those don’t count.”

“Why?” asked John.

Cleery opened one eye briefly to glance at him. “It may be my dream, but I don’t make up the rules. I just know, they won’t work. Maybe the hypnotist will be able to get me over to one and help me open it.”

“And there are other people,” Sherlock continued, his fingers now pressed against his lips in a though pyramid.

“Do we have to  - ,”

“Yes. Who are the people.”

“John is there, and he’s been shot. The men that assaulted me are there, but I am not afraid of them. They are just shadows, but I know who they are. And my dad.”

Sherlock’s drooping eyes flew open. “Your father?”

“Yes. Last night, first time. He just walks around, looking for something. Doesn’t see or notice me. And no one talks. It’s very quiet in these dreams. John, your mouth will open as if you are trying to talk, but you don’t even gasp. I can hear my footsteps only, creaking on the floorboards.” She turned on her side, facing the fire again, her legs twisting in Sherlock’s lap.

“It’s an old house,” John remarked.

“Mmm-hm,” Cleery responded by the fire, her voice drowsy. In a few minutes, the men heard her breathe deeply in sleep. It was apparent to both of them that a restful, complete night of sleep was something the poor girl had not had in quite some time.

“ _The condition of the house is reflective of your mental state_ ,” Sherlock quoted, voice low so only John could hear. His long, slender fingers massaged Cleery’s feet and calves while his eyes, filled with worry, gazed into the fire. “Or so they say.”

“Sherlock, it seems like she is open to getting help. This is progress. Do you remember after we initially met Cleery? She would only talk to you or me. She’s getting so much better,” John said.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still watching the flames. “Can you book an appointment?”

“Of course,” John tilted his cup to capture the last bit of tea and stood up.

“And, if you…if you could be there,” Sherlock said.

“Of course,” John repeated, and retired to his bedroom to continue his interrupted afternoon nap.


	29. CHAPTER 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleery undergoes hypnosis.

Cleery shifted uncomfortably in the leather chaise, wincing at the squeaking sound her movement produced.  The doctor, sitting next to her, looked up from her paperwork.

“Are we ready to begin?” she asked.

“Um, not quite yet. John?” Cleery beseeched her friend. John stood up from the couch against the wall.

“Let me go check outside. Maybe he can’t find the office,” John offered, even though both of them knew this could not possibly be true. John cursed Sherlock in his head. He and Cleery were at the hypnosis office, and they were ready to begin. They were just waiting on Sherlock. John left the deep quiet of the office and stepped out on to the busy sidewalk to be nearly run over by a very frantic Sherlock. He was pacing back and forth, two cigarettes in his mouth – neither lit – his hands deep in his pockets and his head sunk into the collar of his coat like a turtle.

“Sherlock!”

The detective barely gave his friend a sidelong glance as he continued his march back and forth.

“Sherlock, we are waiting for you,” John tried a more soothing tone. “Cleery is in there, and she’s nervous as all hell – more nervous thinking that you won’t be here than for the hypnosis. Come on.”

Sherlock stopped in front of john and gave a quick nod. John pointed to Sherlock’s mouth with a frown.

“Right,” the detective said as he pulled the cigarettes from his mouth. “Sorry. Let’s go.”

John led him into the office, waiting patiently while Sherlock hung up his coat and buttoned and smoothed his jacket. With a nod, John opened the inner door where Cleery and the doctor were waiting. Cleery sat up in the chaise as if hit by lightning and held out her arms. Sherlock embraced her, dropping down onto his knees, mumbling an apology into her neck. All was forgiven.

“Are we ready to begin?” the doctor asked. John knew Sherlock was assessing her, but from what John knew, she was an expert in her field. Dr. Whitcomb was in her 50’s, with a short bob of graying hair and cat-eye tortoiseshell glasses. She had an immediate, soothing presence. Her office had the same effect, with walls lined with bookshelves and landscape paintings, soft lighting, and a deep oriental carpet. John had assured the couple that she was a top expert in her field, more than qualified to handle Cleery’s case. After some preliminary appointments, they were now ready to undertake the actual hypnosis.

“Yes,” Cleery affirmed, looking at Sherlock, who smiled and gave a deep nod. She moved her legs sideways so he could sit next to her on the chaise, never letting go of his hand. Dr. Whitcomb adjusted her glasses, her gaze directed at the detective.

“Now, Cleery and I have had several appointments already. We have discussed the dreams and her need to ‘find a way out’. Mr. Holmes, your reputation of course does proceed you, and it is most unusual for me to ask this, but what are your thoughts on the matter?”

At the question, the light seemed to fade from Sherlock’s eyes and his shoulders sagged just a bit.

“I- I do appreciate you consulting with me, Dr. Whitcomb. My only thought is this: that the house is a retainer of things that are dark, and the only way for Cleery to separate herself from these things is for her to escape. To find that elusive door.”

Cleery nodded, her eyes shining, a forced smile on her lips. “I want to burn it down,” she said hoarsely. “I want to open the door and walk through, and burn the bloody thing to the ground.”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “That’s my girl,” he whispered.

“All right, then, time to get started. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this may prove difficult for you to watch at some point. Please feel free at any time to get up and quietly leave this room. You may at no time speak to myself or to Clarissa during this process. Is that understood? Good. Mr. Holmes, please go sit on the couch. I need to have her complete and total attention. Thank you.”

Sherlock moved and sat next to John, the short couch forcing Sherlock’s knees to come almost to his chin. He plunged his hands between his thighs and leaned forward, intent on every word the hypnotist said. It wasn’t two minutes later that Cleery was in a deep trance, her voice soft when answering, her face and body completely relaxed.

“Are you in the house now, Cleery?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you see.”

“I’m in the library. So many books…,”

“Go ahead and walk over and pick a book. Tell me when you have one.”

“I’ve got one.”

“Okay, describe it.”

“It’s dusty…leather…its old.”

“Go ahead, open the book. Tell me what you see.”

Sherlock began to rock forward and back on the couch impatiently. John put a hand on his shoulder to quiet him.

“What is she doing?” he said to John between clenched teeth.

“Establishing the place. She’s making sure Cleery is completely present in the house. Its only then they can find a way out. Now, quiet.”

“I see it’s a medical book,” Cleery continued. “No…a book on animals. On how to cut up animals. For a butcher.” A furrow appeared between her brows.

“She’s thinking of Denobar,” Sherlock said.

“I see. Let’s close up that book and put it back,” Dr. Whitcomb said quickly, casting a warning glance at Sherlock.

“Okay.”

“Is there anyone in the room with you?”

“No. I’m all alone,” Cleery’s voice echoed with loneliness.

“Cleery, I want you to walk around the house. Where ever you want. Tell me about it.”

“It smells in here,” Cleery’s nose wrinkled and John and Sherlock exchanged a smile. She was always so expressive, even under a spell. “Musty, dusty. Damp. Quiet. Spiderwebs. Now I’m walking down a hall way. There are rooms on both sides. It’s a long, long hallway. I’m walking. The floor is creaky.”

“Good, now - ,”

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Cleery shouted, her arms rigid and her fists clenched by her sides. Sherlock jumped to his feet. Dr. Whitcomb put up a hand to him, her palm facing towards him. _Stop._

“Cleery, you are safe. Nothing can hurt you here. Stop walking. Relax….relax….relax. There you go. Now, did you see something?”

“Y – yes. Yes, I saw something.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“I don’t want to see it again.”

“It can’t hurt you, whatever it is. Tell me.”

John pulled Sherlock back onto the couch, feeling the waves of tension rolling off the man. The detective’s face was a mixture of emotion – sadness, fear, worry. “It’s okay,” John whispered to his friend. Sherlock shot him a glance as he ran his hands through his hair. “I hope so,” he replied.

“Tell me,” Dr. Whitcomb coaxed.

“It was the warehouse. One of the rooms…was the warehouse.”

John felt prickles of fear in his stomach.

“Go back, Cleery. Go back to that room and tell me what you see.”

The girl let out a low, desperate moan, her head rocking from side to side. John grabbed Sherlock by the arm to keep him seated.

“I…see…the warehouse. The floor is concrete and all dirty. There are pipes on the wall. There…is…a m-matt-mattress,” Cleery’s teeth were clattering. “It’s moving…it’s slithering…GOD, _NO_! Don’t let it _TOUCH ME_!”

“Dr. Whitcomb!” Sherlock pleaded.

“Cleery. You are safe. Relax….relax….relax. Good. Now tell me what you see.”  There was a long pause, then Cleery spoke, her voice level again.

“It’s an empty room. There is nothing there.” Her body relaxed into the chaise lounge once more, but John noticed the furrow between her eyebrows did not disappear.

“Very, very good. Now let’s continue down the hallway.”

“There is no hallway. I’m in a kitchen.”

“Oh, all right,” Dr. Whitcomb glanced down at her notes, seemingly perturbed.

“I don’t know this kitchen.”

“Um, well, tell me about this kitchen.”

“There is no kitchen. I’m back in the library.”

“Cleery, I want you to stop walking. Stay where you are.”

“I’m not walking.”

“How are you getting from room to room?”

“I’m not moving. The house is.”

“I – I see,” Dr. Whitcomb seemed flustered, even throwing a glance up at Sherlock and John.

“Cleery, listen to me. Sit down, right where you are, on the floor. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Stay right there.” The doctor jotted some notes down her pad, then removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

“What is it?” Sherlock hissed.

The doctor shook her head and frowned, and pointed to the door in warning. Sherlock held up his hands in surrender and leaned back in the couch, crossing his arms so tightly they almost wrapped around his body.

“John is here,” Cleery said, her voice full of misery.

“John Watson?” asked Dr. Whitcomb.

“Yes.”

“What is he doing?”

“He’s bleeding out.”

It was Sherlock that grabbed John’s arm this time. John wrapped his own hand over Sherlock’s.

“I’m sorry, John,” Cleery said, a tear leaking out of the corner of her eye. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, Cleery?”

“I lied to him. I told him he was going to be okay, and I told him I loved him when he asked me, because he wanted someone to love him before he died. And that was a lie, too. But he was going to die, so what do you say to a man that is dying? You lie to him. You make him feel better. You give him that last good feeling on this earth. You kiss him good-bye. That is all you can do,” Cleery rambled, her voice becoming breathless. “Good-bye, dear John. I’m so, so sorry.”

John realized he and Sherlock were completely frozen in place, mouth agape, as this recitation. Even Dr. Whitcomb sat, statue-like. 

“John did not die, Cleery. You saved him,” she was finally able to manage.

“A part of him died right here on this floor,” Cleery’s voice was wistful, almost childlike. “A part of me, did, too.”

John attempted to pull his hand away from Sherlock’s arm, but Sherlock had entwined John’s fingers with his. _It’s alright. It’s old news._ John nodded to Sherlock’s unspoken words, and the two men remained connected and spellbound by the drama unfolding before them.

But Dr. Whitcomb decided to end the session. In a soothing, monotone cadence, she brought Cleery out of her hypnotic state. When the countdown of ten to one ended, Cleery opened her eyes and took a deep breath as if coming back to life. Her face was pale, but mottled by bright red blotches on her neck and cheeks. She rolled her head to the side, searching for Sherlock, who still sat frozen on the couch, uncertain.

“It’s alright, now,” Dr. Whitcomb reassured him. As if propelled by a rocket, Sherlock was at Cleery’s side, taking her head in his hands, searching her eyes, brushing her tears away gently with his thumbs.

“I said terrible things,” Cleery said.

“Shush, now, of course not,” Sherlock responded. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit shaky, and tired. I’m okay.”

“I would recommend a quiet evening at home, with an early bedtime. I’ll see you in a few days, Clarissa,” Dr. Whitcomb stood up, already studying her notes.

The three of them exited the office, Cleery leaning heavily against Sherlock as he hailed a cab. It was a silent ride to Baker Street, with each of them deep in their own thoughts. John noticed that Sherlock held Cleery close, reassuring her with his physical presence, pulling her under the crook of his arm and kissing the top of her head. Cleery responded by placing her head on his chest and closing her eyes. Once at the flat, Sherlock and Cleery went right into Sherlock’s room while John started a fire.

John didn’t know how long he had been sitting, staring at the flames, when Sherlock emerged. His flatmate flopped into his chair and glanced up at John.

“Have you ever found that you have so much to think about that you cannot think about anything at all?” inquired John.

“No,” Sherlock responded, and the two men looked at each other and smiled.

“Ah, this is where you are supposed to say something about your amazing brain,” said John, but Sherlock waved a hand.

“You know the script,” he said. “I’m too tired to be even a little bit arrogant tonight.”

“You should go to bed.”

Instead, Sherlock leaped to his feet and began to pace, his maroon dressing gown flowing behind him, fingers templed into his thought pyramid, and began to talk in his trademark rapid-fire pace.  

 “A house without doors. Is there any kind of house without doors? A prison? But then there would be cells, bars,” Sherlock began. “A garage? Storage? Perhaps the doors are there but they are hidden. It’s obvious it’s full of bad memories – the warehouse, you being shot, the butchering of Denobar. It’s all tucked away, perhaps underground – down deep – oh my God - ,”

The two men’s eyes locked, reaching the same conclusion simultaneously.

“It’s her mind palace,” John said. Sherlock nodded vigorously. “It’s the basement of her own mind palace, where she had stuffed everything down deep. It’s all there, bursting at the seams. Of course it’s going to affect her. Now a basement won’t have windows, but there must be a way out,” John continued, and Sherlock snapped his fingers and pointed to John, excitement in his eyes.

“Stairs. She’s never looked for stairs. They will be there if she looks, I know it.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“Call the hypnotist, I’ll go wake Cleery,” Sherlock marched toward the bedroom.

“No, Sherlock, wait! If we want this next session to be successful, Cleery needs her rest. And it’s late. I’m sure Dr. Whitcomb has gone home by now.”

“But this can’t wait, not another moment!” Sherlock pleaded, but John could see in his face the detective was torn between the desire solving this case once and for all, and letting his fiancé get her sleep.

“I know you want to fix her, Sherlock. Just one more night will be okay. And let me talk to Dr. Whitcomb before you tell Cleery about the basement. There may be a certain way she would like to handle it, yeah?”

Sherlock’s face filled with sadness and frustration and he clamped his hands to his head, pacing.

“John, another torturous night for her, wandering around in that space, afraid. I don’t know how I will be able to stand it.”

John stood up and put a hand on each of Sherlock’s arms, bringing him to a halt. “Be with her,” he said, looking up into the detective’s eyes. “Be with her, that’s all you can do for a person sometimes. And quite often, that is enough.”

Sherlock dropped his hands and let out a deep breath, nodding. He turned and went to the bedroom, his footsteps softer now, to be with Cleery. Once John heard the bedroom door softly click close, he slumped into his chair, head bent, hands in his hair. He was overwhelmed. Sherlock and he had solved the mystery of Cleery’s ‘house’ and John was certain this would only lead down the path of recovery. But instead of triumph, he felt a lump in his chest. Rather, a stone, hard and heavy. His chest clamped with the weight of it. John rubbed his sternum, willing it away, and was shocked to feel tears spring to his eyes.

_Why the hell am I so emotional right now?_

And then he knew.

It was over. There were no more obstacles to Sherlock and Cleery. The road ahead was clear. Only their happiness lay ahead. They would soon be married and John would truly be the third wheel, the odd one out, miserably looking in from the outside at a life he longed for, with a girl he still -.

_Stop this, stop!_

John stood up and blinked the threatening tears away as best he could as he grabbed his jacket and ran out of the flat, heading towards the nearest pub.


	30. CHAPTER THIRTY

“Sherlock! He’s here! I need your help! John, oh John, come and sit up now,” Cleery soothed John with a cool hand to his cheek. He slowly came round, groaning at the stiffness in his bones and the pounding in his head. He was strewn on the stairs heading up to 221B, having not been able to make it all the way up last night in his drunken condition.

“Ugh,” was all he managed to utter at the raw taste of beer and vomit in his throat. He felt Sherlock’s large, strong hands come under his arms from behind and lift him to his feet.

“You all right?” Sherlock asked worriedly as John turned to face him.

“Sure,” John said, grasping the railing and hauling himself up the stairs. “Thirsty.”

Sherlock pressed a firm hand to the small of John’s back to steady him as he shakily made his way up to the flat. Cleery held the door open as the two men entered and John could not help but notice the look of concerned between the two.

“Just need a wash,” John mumbled as he staggered to the loo. With disgust, he noticed that the front of his pants were soaking – was he that ripped that he had pee’ed himself? He tore off his clothes and entered the shower, attempting to recall the events of last night. He had left the flat, gone down to Louie’s Pub, and gotten completely and totally stupid drunk. And met a girl and –

_Oh, God._

The painful memory of what he had done in the alley with that girl – he recalled she was at least as drunk as he was – hit him like a stick to his very throbbing head. He scrubbed himself under the hottest water he could tolerate in an effort to cleanse his body and his soul.

_I will not be an obstacle to them. I won’t get in the way of Sherlock and Cleery. I will not become some drunk parasite that hinders them in any way!_

When John finally exited the loo, Sherlock was just donning his coat.

“I’m off to meet Lestrade on a case. Cleery’s gone on some errands,” Sherlock’s eyes were full of worry. “You all right?” The question hung in the air, and John realized Sherlock was not only asking about the state of John’s hangover.

“I’m all right,” John managed a forced smile. “Going to sleep it off. Just went out for a drink last night and met up with a few friends. Sorry about that.”

Sherlock returned a lopsided grin, but John could see it in his eyes. His flatmate did not believe his story. Sherlock turned away and reached for his scarf. “Are you up to calling Dr. Whitcomb today, John? In a few hours, of course. I think you will be able to relay our discovery to her better than I.”

“Of course,” John squinted as the sun penetrated the morning clouds and entered the flat. Sherlock nodded and was out the door in a swirl of Belstaff, leaving John massaging his temples at the sound of the slamming door.

###

Cleery didn’t realize how long she had been standing outside the shop, gazing at the wedding dresses in the window, but it must have been quite a while as it had attracted the attention of the shopkeeper.

“Miss? Miss? Would you like to come in?”

Cleery blinked, coming back into focus, and smiled at the young lady standing in the doorway of the shop.

“I see you’ve got a shiny new engagement ring. Probably starting to think about a dress, yeah?”

Cleery gave a nervous laugh. “Well, we have been engaged for a bit, but I haven’t really started looking…or planning. I guess I should.”

“Then why don’t you come in? No harm in looking, love. Come on, besides, its been a slow morning. At least keep me company,” the shopkeeper said, gesturing Cleery to enter. She was a petite woman with large hazel eyes and short brown hair that flipped up into curls around the top of her shoulders. She pushed aside a fringe of bangs and held out her hand as Cleery entered. “I’m Rebecca.”

Cleery shook her hand and entered the store, where a modest but tasteful display of wedding, bridesmaids, and mother-of-the-bride dresses were displayed. Veils, shoes, and a glittering assortment of earrings and necklaces were displayed in shining glass cases. Soft music with a fun upbeat could be heard in the background.

“Its lovely in here!” Cleery exclaimed. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m-,”

“Oh, I know who you are!” Rebecca wagged her eyebrows. “Every fair maiden in the city knows who you are and who you are going to marry! Lucky duck!”

“Yes, I am,” Cleery returned, laughing. She felt relieved that she had found this shop. She was fearful that getting a dress would be a tedious experience. Now she realized this could be fun. She ran her hand over the glistening bodice of an embroidered gown.

“Would you like to try that one on?” Rebecca pulled the dress off the rack and spread its train so Cleery could better see.

“I don’t know if I’m quite ready to do this today,” Cleery admitted. Rebecca pouted and put a hand on her hip.

“I’m not asking you to make a decision and buy it today. Just try it on! Ah, rather, I don’t think that’s your style. It’s too fancy. Don’t get me wrong, but you need something more classy-elegant. Hold on, I’ve got one…,” Rebecca busied herself in another rack, singing softly to the music. Cleery smiled. She liked this girl. Very no-nonsense.

“Nope…not that one…. _ugh_ , definitely not…..yes, here we go!” With a flourish, she pulled a dress off the rack and removed it from the plastic covering. “Classy-elegant, just for you, future-Mrs.-Holmes!”

“Oh!” The dress was a modest scoop neck. The material of the bodice was smooth, then twisted at the waist and lead down to a skirt with multiple thin layers of silk that floated about the ground like a cloud.  Small pearls were elegantly stitched throughout, catching the light in a subtle way that made the dress glow. The edges of the sleeves and neck had a heavier layer of the small pearls stitched delicately into the fine fabric.

“Am I right?” Rebecca prompted.

“Classy-elegant, for sure,” Cleery agreed. “Let’s do this!”

It was Rebecca’s turn to laugh. “Dressing room right this way, Ms. O’Donnell.”

“Oh, please, call me Cleery.”

“Great! Now the buttons in the back are a bit cumbersome, so let me know when you’ve slipped it on and I’ll come help.” Rebecca slid the curtain closed and Clarissa was left with her thoughts in the quiet of the dressing room.

_Oh, my. So this is happening! I am truly going to marry Sherlock. I am._ Cleery hummed with the music as she undressed and slipped into the gown. Rebecca came with she called and chatted as she slowly buttoned up the back. The shopkeeper had picked out a headpiece and placed it on her head, slipped her feet into some white heels, then held her hand and slowly turned Cleery around to face the mirror.

“Oh, wow!” Both girls said simultaneously as they viewed Cleery’s reflection. The dress was probably a size too small, and its tight fit made Cleery’s modest breasts push up a bit and pull in her waist so her figure looked amazing. The pearls shone, providing small reflections as she moved. Rebecca had picked out a similarly styled headband and veil, simple and elegant.

“I can’t believe I’m wearing a dress,” Cleery said, eyes wide.

“A _wedding_ dress. Sherlock is going to faint when he sees this on you!” Rebecca clapped her hands, then put them to her face. “I mean, Mr. Holmes. I’m sorry – everyone knows him as Sherlock!”

Cleery waved a hand. “Don’t worry about that. You are actually the first one to call me Mrs. Holmes.”

“Just tell me you’ve practiced writing ‘Clarissa Holmes’ like I used to do in school with a boy’s name I liked,” Rebecca said, brushing her bangs aside.

“Of course!” Both girls giggled. Reluctantly, Cleery had Rebecca unbutton her and she changed back into her street clothes of an easy black sweater, jeans, and high black boots. The girls got talking and Rebecca gave her some helpful notes on additional wedding planning. Cleery put a deposit on the dress and got a hug from Rebecca.

“Thank you so much,” Cleery said, then had a sudden thought. “Would you like to meet Sherlock? And….John Watson?”

“Oh my gosh, for real?” Rebecca spun around and clapped her hands.

“Absolutely! Let me check with them, but I think a few pints are in order tonight. Are you free?”

“Phh!! I’d reschedule brain surgery! Here’s my number! I close up at 4.”

###

Getting the boys out for a pint that evening was not as easy. That night in the flat, Cleery tugged on Sherlock’s jacket sleeve like a demanding child.

“Darling! Away from the microscope! I want to go out!”

Sherlock groaned and did not remove his eyes from the microscope. “Long day, darling. Exhausting.”

“You are a terrible liar. You just don’t like being social. But I’m telling you, this girl is so nice and I think John might like her!” Cleery whispered. “I’m playing Cupid, and its so much fun!”

Sherlock sighed and gave a sidelong look at his fiancé. She was bouncing on her toes, pulling on his sleeve, eyes shining, ever so endearing. He gave a quick nod and she squealed, then ran up to John’s room to convince him. After his previous night out, John was certainly not willing, but Cleery was able to finally convince him as well. The two men begrudgingly pulled on their coats and followed Cleery to the pub.

It was a rowdy crowd at the pub that Rebecca had suggested, and the three of them had to shoulder their way through to get to the table Rebecca was seated at. After introductions and each person had a beer in their hand, Cleery rapped at the table with her knuckles to gain their attention.

“I have an announcement! Now boys, I know this may not seem like important news to you, but the reason we are here tonight is because…drumroll, please, Rebecca…..I have a wedding dress!”

Cleery and Rebecca clinked glasses and drank while Sherlock and John looked at each other in bewilderment.

“Sorry, what are we celebrating?” John asked, his forehead crinkling.

“It’s a big step! The poor girl has been dragging her feet, dreading the whole process, when she happens upon my shop -,”

“Which is awesome -,” Cleery said.

“Yes, thank you, which is awesome – and found the perfect wedding dress. She is on her way to marrying you, Mr. Holmes!” Rebecca clinked Sherlock’s glass which was still in the air.

“Ah, thank you,” Sherlock responded. “I think.”

“Oh, he’s hilarious,” Rebecca told Cleery. “No one ever says how funny he is!”

“I could tell you stories,” drolled John, sipping his lager.

“Yes, John, do tell us a story!” Cleery encouraged him. The beer was cold and the pub was warm with the crowd. She felt the warmth of Sherlock’s hand on her thigh under the table and he gave it a little squeeze. John glanced at Cleery, then at Rebecca, and back to Cleery again, suddenly understanding the true meaning of this outing. Cleery shrugged and smiled at him over her beer. John shook his head at her with a small grin, and then proceeded to tell a story about Sherlock. Towards the end of the story, he was telling it mostly to Rebecca, and the girl was honestly engaged with the doctor, laughing and even venturing a touch on his arm. Cleery took the opportunity to lean in and whisper into Sherlock’s ear.

“I think its working!”

Sherlock gave a nod and whispered back, the deep baritone of his voice at such a low level giving Cleery goosebumps.

“Did you really find a dress?”

“An honest to goodness wedding dress, yes.”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s white. Obviously.”

Sherlock’s cheek pulled back into a grin. “No other details?”

“Certainly not!”

“I can’t wait to see you in it. And then take you out of it.”

Cleery fainted insult and gave him a mock slap. She noticed that John and Rebecca had begun to engage in their own conversation as well. Sherlock’s nose nuzzled her ear, seeking her attention. The hand on her thigh had begun to move higher.

“Staying tonight?” He purred into her ear.

“Sounds dangerous,” she replied, turning her head to catch his lips in a quick kiss. “But I’ve been in worse situations. I think I can handle you.”

Sherlock huffed in mock disdain and turned away to take a sip of his beer, nodding as he caught John’s eye.

“Ive got an early shift tomorrow, and to say I had a rough night last night may be an understatement,” John said, pushing away his half-full beer. “Rebecca, its been very lovely meeting you. I’m sure the dress you picked out for Cleery is amazing and I certainly cannot wait to see it.”

The four of them stood up and pulled on their coats and Rebecca flashed Cleery a wide smile. As they made their way through the crowd to the exit, the shopkeeper tucked her hand under Cleery’s arm. “I’m going to give John my number – or do you think that’s just too forward?”

“Go for it!”

“Okay! This was so much fun. Thank you!”

Once outside, Cleery distracted Sherlock just long enough to give Rebecca a chance to slip John her card. She heard an ‘oh!’  Of surprise from the doctor, then they bid their good-nights.

“That was nice,” Cleery prompted as the three of them began their walk back to the flat.

“You’re a sneaky Pete,” John said, shaking his head.

“You have to admit, she’s very nice. And very pretty.”

“I’ll admit that, yes.”

“Are you going to call her?”

John rubbed his face and frowned. “Cleery, let me sleep on it, yeah? Caught me a bit unawares, is all.”

Cleery nodded, a bit abashed by John’s suddenly grumpy mood. They walked the rest of the way in silence, Sherlock’s long fingers encompassing Cleery’s hand in a reassuring gesture. Once home, John mumbled a good night and trudged up to his bedroom.

“I was only trying to help,” Cleery implored to Sherlock as he took her coat.

“Don’t worry about him,” Sherlock replied, turning her to face him. “He’s just being – ah - ,”

Cleery laughed at Sherlock’s continued incompetence with human emotions. “He’s just being John,” she finished for him. The detective hummed in agreement, taking her hand and leading her down the hall to the bedroom.

“But we won’t let that spoil our evening,” he said, his voice low and husky. His lips met hers with a fervor of passion so pure and true Cleery felt her breath hitch in her chest. She returned with equal emotion, and they stood in the bedroom, lips meeting and hands traveling down each other’s bodies, over clothing, pulling each other as close as they could.

“Being away from you is torture. Just standing next to you is torture,” Sherlock said, his lips against her neck. “I just want you this close to me all the time.” His fingers dug into her shoulder blades, needy and possessive. “Tell me it will always be _me_ you want.”

“Always and forever, my darling,” she reassured him, her hands running through the tangles of his curls. “No one but you.”

She felt a huff of his breath under her ear, and the hot drips of sudden tears touching her skin. She coo’ed sweet reassurances at the unexpected emotions from the detective, her hands turning gentle, her kisses to his cheek tender. It was a few good, long minutes before Sherlock raised his head from where he had it buried in her neck, but quickly looked away, brushing quick hands over his eyes.

“Hey,” Cleery whispered, pulling him back to her. “Come here.”

Sherlock stared at the floor, only ruefully smiling through tear-stained cheeks when her hands clasped his, her eyes catching his somber gaze and pulling it to her.

“It’s nothing,” he stammered, embarrassed.

“Sherlock, my love. What is it?”

In response, he enveloped the young woman in his arms, pulling her head to rest against his shoulder and his chin propped atop her head.

“I don’t want to ever end up like John,” he said quietly. “Now, you know I love the man, and this is not directed at him. But like him. I don’t ever want to be lonely again. Looking, seeking, trying to find something that is not there. Empty. Unbelieving. Sad. If you, eh, ever went – went away, Cleery…I could never find this much happiness with anyone else. You are my true and only love. I’m sorry. This is coming out all wrong,” Sherlock sighed and backed out of the hug to gaze in her eyes. “I’m not making any sense. Even to me.”

Cleery placed a hand on each of the man’s cheeks and wiped away the last remnants of tears with her thumbs. “I understand you. I do. And you know I’m not going anywhere. I am here for you, for the rest of my long life. I promise.”

They kissed, soft at first, but between them the passion quickly mounted. Cleery wound her hands in Sherlocks hair and pulled the detective into her fiercely. Sherlock pulled her blouse from her jeans and growled as the two lost contact for just an instant as he pulled it over her head. His hands wound round possessively around her ribcage, just under her bra, long fingers splayed over her bare skin. She shivered and unbuttoned his plum shirt, finally pushing it back off his shoulders. Forehead to forehead, they gasped as their bare skin connected. Cleery traced the etched muscles of Sherlock’s chest with her fingertips, watching it rise and fall with each breath as he moved them towards the bed. Sherlock lay back on it first, pulling Cleery’s trim figure on to him, letting her long legs splay on either side of his. He groaned as she found his firm erection and pushed her pelvis into it.

Cleery ground into him, watching as he threw his head back, chest arching off the mattress, fingers grasping her thighs. Thin beams of moonlight shown through the window, casting long stripes across the bed. This was a new and different Sherlock to her tonight – one that had never needed her so badly as right now. She knew he was lost, seeking a physical connection to this myriad of feelings that were a hot hurricane in his body, confusing and frustrating.

“Oh, darling,” she purred, leaning in to kiss that long neck and splay her fingers across his hardening nipples and sweating chest.

“I – I need - ,” Sherlock gasped, almost an edge of panic to his voice and tears threatening in his eyes again. He turned his head from her, unable to meet her concerned gaze. She knew words were lacking for him now and she wanted to please him, to complete him, to ease the ache of emotion in his chest. Cleery rolled off him and they both kicked off their pants, fingers raking down each other’s legs in their haste. She pulled him onto her as she had never before, letting him rest on his elbows on each side of her head, wrapping her legs around his waist as she guided him into her, both of them crying out when they became one, moving together with a frenzied need, Sherlock’s body shuddering as Cleery met his again and again, climbing higher and higher until he exploded with a gasping cry of her name, but still he pushed into her, his great need insatiable.

“God, Cleery, I can’t stop,” he growled, burying his head into her neck, now drops of hot sweat on her skin. Too overcome to even be able to kiss her, Sherlock pressed his gasping mouth to her neck and she grasped the sweating, curly tendrils of his hair with one hand and raked the length of his lean back with the other. His hands fisted the sheet on either side of her head.

“Don’t stop,” she told him, and he answered with a whine and he came again, sucking in great gaping breaths as his body trembled and heaved. Cleery clung to him, pushing against him a few final times and his body slowed, finally spent. He pulled his head the shelter of her neck and lay it on her chest and moved his body off of hers, resting by her side. Cleery smoothed back the wild curls on his head, running her fingers down to the base of his skull and behind his ears. She felt his chest hitch in its breath as he came down from his high, his pulse slowing.

“I didn’t – for you,” he started.

“It’s all okay,” Cleery soothed. His body heaved in a great sigh of relief and release as he rolled onto his back. Cleery pulled the covers up over their bodies and watched as the man she loved closed his eyes and slept.


End file.
